COPYRIGHT,  1907 
BY  SHERWIN  CODY 


CONTENTS 


Page 


Hawthorne,  Life 7 

The  Great  Stone  Face  25 

Howe's  Masquerade  53 

Drowne’s  Wooden  Image  73 

The  Gray  Champion  91 


The  Great  Carbuncle 


103 


HAWTHORNE 

We  usually  think  of  Hawthorne  as  a small,  awk- 
ward, painfully  shy  young  man,  fond  of  mooning 
about  alone,  and  making  up  for  his  lack  of  sociability 
by  the  brilliancy  of  his  genius.  The  fact  is,  he  was 
tall,  with  a strikingly  fine  figure,  black  hair,  even 
features,  and  a fascinating  personality.  A gypsy 
woman  who  once  met  him  in  the  woods  stopped 
short  and  exclaimed,  “Do  I see  a man  or  an  angel?” 
He  was  a daring  skater  on  Lake  Sebago,  in  the 
woods  of  Maine,  beside  which  he  lived  for  several 
years  of  his  boyhood,  with  his  mother  and  sisters; 
and  once  he  followed  a black  bear  far  into  the  woods 
with  a gun,  though  he  failed  to  get  a shot  at  the 
creature.  His  letters  to  his  sisters  are  bubbling 
over  with  fun  and  boyishness,  and  his  love-letters 
to  his  wife  are  entrancingly  ardent  and  human, 
though,  unlike  those  of  many  great  men,  never  for 
a moment  silly.  Hawthorne  did  not  like  strangers, 
and  had  a peculiar  trait,  characteristic  of  the  whole 
family,  of  affecting  secluded  habits.  But  for  those 
who  succeeded  in  getting  behind  the  curtain  that 
he  was  forever  holding  up  to  shut  out  the  public 
gaze,  he  was  a splendid  specimen  of  a man,  both  as 
a warm  friend,  a genial  companion,  and  a stanch, 
honest  defender  of  truth.  He  had  an  eerie  fancy, 
and  a strange,  wild  imagination,  which  give  an  al- 
7 


8 


HAWTHORNE 


most  supernatural  tinge  to  all  his  writings;  but  he, 
of  all  men,  was  not  morbid,  and  his  genius  has  not 
the  least  kinship  to  insanity.  We  must  learn  to 
think  of  the  handsome,  healthy,  kind-hearted,  hon- 
est Hawthorne,  the  real  Hawthorne,  before  we  can 
comprehend  the  meaning  of  his  imaginative  flights, 
which  have  quite  a different  significance  when  we 
are  assured  of  the  clear-headed  purpose  behind  them. 

From  Old  New  England  Stock. 

Like  Longfellow,  Bryant,  Lowell,  Whittier,  and 
Holmes,  Hawthorne  came  of  the  very  best  New 
England  Puritan  stock.  “His  forefathers, ” says  his 
son  Julian,  “whatever  their  less  obvious  qualities 
may  have  been,  were  at  all  events  enterprising, 
active,  practical  men,  stern  and  courageous,  accus- 
tomed to  deal  with  and  control  lawless  and  rugged 
characters.  They  were  sea-captains,  farmers,  sol- 
diers, and  magistrates ; and  in  whatever  capacity, 
they  were  used  to  see  their  own  will  prevail,  and  to 
be  answerable  to  no  man.”  The  first  American 
Hawthorne  landed  at  Boston  in  1630,  and  was  for 
fifty  years  member  of  the  legislature,  or  “General 
Court,”  as  it  v/as  called,  and  for  not  a few  of  those 
years  he  was  Speaker.  Eloquent  he  must  have  been, 
and  in  more  ways  than  one  he  was  a truly  great 
man.  His  son  John  became  the  “witch- judge,”  and 
was  cursed  by  a so-called  witch,  but  apparently  with 
no  ill  effects.  Hawthorne’s  father  was  a sea- 
captain,  and  died  of  yellow  fever  in  1808  while 
with  his  ship  in  a foreign  port. 

Miss  Elizabeth  Peabody,  Mrs.  Hawthorne’s  sister, 


LIFE 


9 


says  the  Hawthorne  family  degenerated  in  two  hun- 
dred years,  and  was  very  reserved  and  unsociable; 
but  the  father  of  our  novelist  and  some  other  mem- 
bers of  the  family  did  not  cease  to  be  true  gentle- 
men. 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne  was  born  in  Salem,  July  4, 
1804.  His  mother  had  been  a gifted  and  beautiful 
young  woman;  but  after  the  death  of  her  husband, 
she  shut  herself  up  and  scarcely  appeared  in  public, 
though  she  lived  many  years.  There  is  no  doubt 
in  the  world  that  this  seclusion  on  her  part  had  its 
effect  on  the  children. 

Boyhood  in  the  Woods  of  Maine. 

After  the  death  of  his  father,  Nathaniel  went  to 
live  with  his  Grandfather  Manning  (his  mother’s 
father),  and  was  much  indulged  by  uncles  and  aunts 
and  cousins,  who  thought  him  a very  pretty  child. 
“One  of  the  peculiarities  of  my  boyhood,”  says  he, 
“was  a grievous  disinclination  to  go  to  school,  and 
(Providence  favoring  me  in  this  natural  repug- 
nance) I never  did  go  half  as  much  as  other  boys, 
partly  owing  to  delicate  health  (which  I made  the 
most  of  for  the  purpose),  and  partly  because,  much 
of  the  time,  there  were  no  schools  within  reach. 

“When  I was  eight  or  nine  years  old,”  he  goes 
on,  “my  mother,  with  her  three  children,  took  up 
her  residence  on  the  banks  of  Sebago  Lake,  in 
Maine,  where  the  family  owned  a large  tract  of 
land,  and  here  I ran  quite  wild,  and  would,  I doubt 
not,  have  willingly  run  wild  till  this  time,  fishing 
all  day  long,  or  shooting  with  an  old  fowling-piece; 


10 


HAWTHORNE 


but  reading  a good  deal,  too,  on  rainy  days,  es- 
pecially in  Shakespeare  and  ‘The  Pilgrim’s  Prog- 
ress,’ and  any  poetry  or  light  books  within  my 
reach.  Those  were  delightful  days;  for  that  part 
of  the  country  was  wild  then,  with  only  scattered 
clearings,  and  nine-tenths  of  it  primeval  woods. 

“But  by  and  by  my  good  mother  began  to  think 
it  was  necessary  for  her  boy  to  do  something  else; 
so  I was  sent  back  to  Salem,  where  a private  in- 
structor fitted  me  for  college.  I was  educated  (as 
the  phrase  is)  at  Bowdoin  College.  I was  an  idle 
student,  negligent  of  college  rules  and  the  Pro- 
crustean details  of  academic  life,  rather  choosing 
to  nurse  my  own  fancies  than  to  dig  into  Greek 
roots  and  be  numbered  among  the  learned  Thebans.”* 

Hawthorne’s  sister,  Elizabeth,  soon  after  her 
brother’s  death,  wrote  some  interesting  letters  about 
him  to  a niece,  in  which  she  gives  many  trivial  but 
fascinating  details  of  his  early  life.  He  was  very 
fond  of  animals,  especially  kittens ; yet  like  all  boys 
he  would  sometimes  tease  them.  Once  when  he 
had  tossed  a kitten  over  the  fence,  and  was  told 
she  would  never  like  him  again,  he  said,  “Oh,  she'll 
think  it  was  William !” — William  was  one  of  his 
playmates. 

Dislike  of  Money. 

A very  curious  trait  of  his  was  a seeming  dislike 
for  money.  Once  when  some  was  offered  him  in 


*This  and  the  following  quotation,  including  the  letters, 
are  from  Julian  Hawthorne’s  “Nathaniel  Hawthorne  and 
His  Wife,”  Houghton,  Mifflin  & Co.,  Boston. 


LIFE 


11 


the  country,  where  there  was  no  opportunity  to 
spend  it,  he  refused  it.  On  another  occasion  an  old 
gentleman  who  was  a friend  of  the  family  offered 
him  a five-dollar  bill,  and  he  refused  it;  which  his 
sister  says  was  very  uncivil  to  the  old  gentleman. 

His  uncle  on  his  mother’s  side  took  charge  of  his 
education,  and  sent  him  to  the  best  schools.  When 
in  Maine  the  Hawthorne  family  lived  part  of  the 
time  with  this  uncle.  While  here  Nathaniel  injured 
his  foot  in  playing  ball,  so  that  for  a long  time  he 
could  only  lie  on  the  floor  and  read,  or  hobble  about 
on  two  crutches.  The  foot  became  much  smaller 
than  the  one  that  was  uninjured,  and  many  doctors 
were  consulted;  yet  it  was  Dr.  Time  that  cured  him 
at  last.  But  the  long  confinement  due  to  this  lame- 
ness, no  doubt,  laid  the  foundation  of  his  habit  of 
reading,  which  was  the  school  in  which  he  learned 
his  wonderful  literary  skill. 

His  son  Julian  says  his  father  used  often  to  tell 
him  stories  of  the  winters  in  Maine.  He  loved  to 
hunt  and  fish,  but  more  for  the  fun  of  the  thing 
than  for  the  -game;  for  he  often  forebore  to  pull 
the  trigger  because  he  hated  to  kill  the  bird,  and 
when  he  had  caught  a fish  he  would  throw  it  back 
into  the  lake  from  pity.  He  and  his  sisters  enjoyed 
this  half-wild  country  life  so  much  that  they  hoped 
never  to  go  back  to  civilization;  but  after  a time 
they  found  themselves  once  more  in  Salem. 

A Boy’s  Letter. 

As  a boy,  Hawthorne  was  full  of  fun  and  good 
humor,  as  may  easily  be  gathered  from  a few  ex- 


12 


HAWTHORNE 


tracts  from  letters  written  about  the  time  he  went 
to  Bowdoin  College.  Here  is  one  entire  that  is 
full  of  an  airy  drollery  quite  enchanting:  ^ 

Salem,  Tuesday,  Sept.  28,  1819. 

“Dear  Sister: — We  are  all  well  and  hope  you  are 
the  same.  I do  not  know  what  to  do  with  myself 
here.  I shall  never  be  contented  here,  I am  sure. 
I now  go  to  a five-dollar  school — I,  that  have  been 
to  a ten-dollar  one.  ‘O  Lucifer,  son  of  the  morning, 
how  art  thou  fallen !’  I wish  I were  but  in  Ray- 
mond,* and  I should  be  happy.  But  ‘ ’twas  light  that 
ne’er  shall  shine  again  on  life’s  dull  stream.’  I have 
read  ‘Waverley,’  ‘The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho/  ‘The 
Adventures  of  Ferdinand  Count  Fathom,’  ‘Roderick 
Random,’  and  the  first  volume  of  ‘The  Arabian 
Nights.’ 

Oh,  earthly  pomp  is  but  a dream, 

And  like  a meteor’s  short-lived  gleam; 

And  all  the  sons  of  glory  soon 

Will  rest  beneath  the  mouldering  stone. 

And  genius  is  a star  whose  light 
Is  soon  to  sink  in  endless  night, 

And  heavenly  beauty’s  angel  form 
Will  bend  like  flower  in  winter’s  storm. 

“Though  these  are  my  rhymes,  yet  they  are  not 
exactly  my  thoughts.  I am  full  of  scraps  of  poetry; 
can’t  keep  it  out  of  my  brain. 

I saw  where  in  the  lowly  grave 
Departed  Genius  lay; 


*Their  home  in  Maine  on  Lake  Sebaga, 


LIFE 


IS 


And  mournful  yew-trees  o'er  it  wave. 

To  hide  it  from  the  day. 

"I  could  vomit  up  a dozen  pages  more  if  I were 
a mind  to  turn  over. 

Oh,  do  not  bid  me  part  from  thee, 

For  I will  leave  thee  never. 

Although  thou  throw’st  thy  scorn  on  me, 

Yet  I will  love  forever. 

There  is  no  heart  within  my  breast, 

For  it  is  flown  away, 

And  till  I knew  it  was  thy  guest, 

I sought  it  night  and  day. 

“Tell  Ebe*  she’s  not  the  only  one  of  the  family 
whose  works  have  appeared  in  the  papers.  The 
knowledge  I have  of  your  honor  and  good  sense, 
Louisa,  gives  me  full  confidence  that  you  will  not 
show  this  letter  to  anybody.  You  may  to  mother, 
though.  My  respects  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Howe.  I 
remain 

“Your  humble  servant  and  affectionate  brother, 

“N.  H.” 

A few  months  later  he  writes  to  his  mother: 

“I  dreamed  the  other  night  that  I was  walking 
by  the  Sebago;  and  when  I awoke  was  so  angry 
at  finding  it  all  a delusion,  that  I gave  Uncle  Robert 
(who  sleeps  with  me)  a most  horrible  kick. 

“I  don’t  read  so  much  now  as  I did,  because  I am 
more  taken  up  in  studying.  I am  quite  reconciled 
to  going  to  college,  since  I am  to  spend  the  vacations 


rHis  sister  Elizabeth. 


14 


HAWTHORNE 


with  you.  Yet  four  years  of  the  best  part  of  my 
life  is  a great  deal  to  throw  away.  I have  not  yet 
concluded  what  profession  I shall  have.  The  being 
a minister  is  of  course  out  of  the  question.  I should 
not  think  that  even  you  could  desire  me  to  choose 
so  dull  a way  of  life.  Oh,  no,  mother,  I was  not 
born  to  vegetate  forever  in  one  place,  and  to  live 
and  die  as  calm  and  tranquil  as — a puddle  of  water. 
As  to  lawyers,  there  are  so  many  of  them  already 
that  one  half  of  them  (upon  a moderate  calculation) 
are  in  a state  of  actual  starvation.  A physician, 
then,  seems  to  be  ‘Hobson’s  choice’ ; but  yet  I should 
not  like  to  live  by  the  diseases  and  infirmities  of  my 
fellow-creatures.  And  it  would  weigh  very  heavily 
on  my  conscience,  in  the  course  of  my  practice,  if  I 
should  chance  to  send  any  unlucky  patient  ‘ad  in- 
ferum/  which  being  interpreted  is,  ‘to  the  realms 
below.’  Oh,  that  I was  rich  enough  to  live  without 
a profession!  What  do  you  think  of  my  becoming 
an  author,  and  relying  for  support  upon  my  pen? 
Indeed,  I think  the  illegibility  of  my  hand-writing 
is  very  author-like.  How  proud  you  would  feel  to 
see  my  works  praised  by  the  reviewers,  as  equal  to 
the  proudest  productions  of  the  scribbling  sons  of 
John  Bull.” 

Another  very  amusing  letter,  for  which  we  have 
not  room  here,  is  one  to  his  aunt,  telling  of  the 
missionary  society  to  which  he  does  not  belong 
and  the  prayer-meetings  he  does  not  attend. 

A Handsome  Man. 

Hawthorne’s  son  and  biographer  describes  him  at 


t^FE 


15 


this  time  as  “the  handsomest  man  of  his  day  in  that 
part  of  the  world.”  He  was  five  feet  ten  and  a half 
inches  in  height,  broad-shouldered,  but  of  a light, 
athletic  build,  not  weighing  more  than  one  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds.  His  limbs  were  beautifully  formed, 
and  his  neck  and  throat  were  molded  like  a piece 
of  antique  sculpture.  His  hair  was  long  and  wavy 
and  nearly  black ; his  eyebrows  were  heavy  and  finely 
arched.  His  nose  was  straight,  but  he  had  a Roman 
chin.  He  never  wore  a beard,  and  was  without  a 
mustache  \mtil  he  was  fifty-five.  He  had  large, 
dark,  brilliant  eyes,  wdiich  Bayard  Taylor  said  were 
the  only  eyes  he  had  ever  known  that  could  flash 
fire.  Charles  Reade,  too,  says  he  never  saw  such 
an  eye  in  any  other  human  head.  His  complexion 
was  rather  dark,  his  cheeks  ruddy,  and  his  skin 
very  sensitive.  He  carried  himself  erect,  with  a 
springing  gait,  and  until  he  was  forty  could  clear 
five  feet  at  a standing  jump.  His  voice  was  low, 
deep,  and  full,  but  had  an  astonishing  strength 
when  he  chose  to  let  it  out,  and  then  it  came,  says 
his  son,  with  “the  searching  and  electrifying  quality 
of  the  blast  of  a trumpet,”  which  might  have  quelled 
a crew  of  mutinous  privateersmen  as  the  voice  of 
Bold  Daniel,  his  grandfather. 

Hawthorne  was  three  years  older  than  Longfel- 
low, who  graduated  with  him  in  1826,  and  instead  of 
taking  an  honorable  position  as  professor  at  Bow- 
doin,  or  some  other  college,  like  his  poet  classmate, 
he  shut  himself  up  at  the  ancestral  home  in  Salem, 
and  for  several  years  lived  a most  secluded  life.  He 
seldom  left  the  house  except  for  an  hour  in  the 


16 


HAWTHORNE 


evening,  when  he  went  for  a walk  along  country 
roads,  where  no  one  would  see  him.  After  his 
return  he  would  eat  a bowl  of  thick  chocolate 
crumbed  full  of  bread  for  winter  diet,  in  summer 
substituting  fruit  to  some  extent.  He  read  a great 
many  books  during  those  lonely  days  he  passed  in 
the  “haunted  chamber,”  “the  ante-chamber  of  his 
fame.”  He  had  already  made  up  his  mind  to  become 
an  author,  and  here  he  studied  and  wrote  with  that 
ambition  in  view.  “Sometimes, ” he  says,  “it  seemed 
as  if  I were  already  in  the  grave,  wittt  only  life 
enough  to  be  chilled  and  benumbed.  But  oftener  I 
was  happy — at  least  as  happy  as  I then  knew  how 
to  be,  or  was  aware  of  the  possibility  of  being.” 

In  a Shadowy  World. 

For  eight  long  years  he  lived  “as  a shadow,  walk- 
ing in  a shadowy  world.”  He  was  healthy  and 
happy,  but  the  loneliness  of  this  period  left  its  im- 
press on  all  his  literary  work.  He  wrote  some  short 
stories,  which  were  published  anonymously  in  vari- 
ous periodicals  and  were  afterward  collected  into 
two  volumes  of  “Twice-Told  Tales.”  He  also  wrote 
a short  novel,  called  “Fanshawe,”  which  he  pub- 
lished at  his  own  expense,  carefully  concealing  his 
name  in  connection  with  it,  and  which  he  suppressed 
and  destroyed  almost  immediately  on  its  publication. 

At  last  he  fell  in  love,  and  was  forced  to  give 
up  his  solitude. 

Mrs.  Hawthorne,  who  was  Sophia  Peabody  be- 
fore her  marriage,  was  a very  sweet,  intelligent,  urn 
selfish,  beautiful  woman.  During  all  her  girlhood 


LIFE 


17 


she  was  a continual  invalid,  and  had  a constant 
headache  from  her  twelfth  to  her  thirtieth  year. 
She  thought  she  would  never  marry;  but  love  cured 
her  headaches,  and  when  she  was  married  she  was 
in  almost  perfect  health. 

Love  Letters. 

Hawthorne's  love-letters  have  an  ideal  beauty 
about  them  that  is  as  fine  as  anything  in  his  pub- 
lished writings,  as  the  reader  may  judge  for  him- 
self from  the  following  extract: 

“Six  or  seven  hours  of  cheerful  solitude ! But  I 
will  not  be  alone.  I invite  your  spirit  to  be  with 
me, — at  any  hour  and  as  many  hours  as  you  please,— 
but  especially  at  the  twilight  hour,  before  I light 
my  lamp.  I bid  you  at  that  particular  time,  because 
I can  see  visions  more  vividly  in  the  dusky  glow  of 
firelight  than 'either  by  daylight  or  lamplight.  Come, 
and  let  me  renew  my  spell  against  headache  and 

other  direful  effects  of  the  east  wind I 

never  till  now  had  a friend  who  could  give  me  re- 
pose; all  have  disturbed  me,  and,  whether  for  pleas- 
ure or  pain,  it  was  still  disturbance.  But  peace  over- 
flows from  your  soul  into  mine.  Then  I feel  that 
there  is  a Now,  and  that  Now  must  be  always  calm 
and  happy,  and  that  sorrow  and  evil  are  but  phan- 
toms that  seem  to  flit  across  it.” 

He  was  married  July  9,  1842.  He  was  thirty-eight 
and  his  wife  was  thirty;  yet  the  best  of  the  lives  of 
both  was  still  before  them.  They  went  to  live  at 
“the  Old  Manse”  in  Concord,  made  famous  by 
Emerson  (whose  home  was  here  at  one  time),  and 


18 


HAWTHORNE 

still  more  famous  by  Hawthorne’s  volume  of  stories, 
“Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse,”  one  of  the  best  of 
which  is  “Drowne’s  Wooden  Image.” 

The  Rising  Author. 

Hawthorne  was  now  gradually  becoming  known 
among  literary  men  as  a skillful  writer  of  short 
stories,  and  there  came  to  his  house  in  Concord 
such  genial  friends  as  Emerson,  Thoreau,  Margaret 
Fuller,  Ellery  Channing,  and  Alcott.  But  still  the 
first  novelist  of  America  was  unknown  to  fame,  and 
was  wretchedly  poor.  He  had  already  been  weigher 
and  gauger  in  the  custom-house  at  Boston  on  a 
salary  of  a few  hundred  a year,  but  he  was  able 
to  hold  the  office  for  only  two  years,  at  the  end 
of  which  time  the  Democratic  party,  under  which  he 
held  the  appointment,  went  out  of  power.  After 
four  years  in  Concord,  in  which  he  struggled  to  pay 
his  debts  by  the  meager  returns  from  his  literary 
work,  he  was  appointed  surveyor  of  customs  at 
Salem,  with  a salary  of  twelve  hundred  dollars  a 
year.  He  had  children  now,  and  the  duties  of  his 
office  occupied  him  so  closely  that  he  wrote  but 
little,  though  of  that  little  “The  Snow  Image”  will 
always  be  remembered.  Hawthorne’s  mother  died 
in  1849 ; and  even  before  that  he  had  lost  his  office 
by  some  sharp  manceuvering  of  politicians.  Money 
must  be  had  to  support  his  growing  family.  His 
wife  had  saved  enough  to  keep  them  for  a few 
months.  He  therefore  decided  to  write  a novel, 
and  The  Scarlet  Letter  was  begun.  It  was  finished 
in  about  six  months,  and  immediately  on  its  pub- 


LIFE 


19 


lication  it  brought  Hawthorne  into  fame  as  one  of 
the  foremost  of  American  writers.  He  was  forty- 
six  years  old.  How  long  he  had  waited  for  fame, 
even  for  the  little  money  his  literary  work  so  richly 
deserved!  “The  mills  of  the  Gods  grind  slowly,  but 
they  grind  exceeding  fine.”  Hawthorne  was  almost 
an  old  man  before  Fame  touched  his  arm  and  bade 
him  follow  her;  but  so  long  as  the  United  States 
remains  a nation  the  name  of  Hawthorne  will  be 
adored  by  her  people. 

“The  Great  Stone  Face”  was  written  soon  after 
the  completion  of  The  Scarlet  Letter . Hawthorne 
was  dissatisfied  with  it  as  a work  of  art;  but  his 
wife  caught  the  secret  of  its  greatness,  for  she  said, 
“Ernest  is  a divine  creation — so  grand,  so  compre- 
hensive, so  simple.” 

His  Principal  Books. 

The  Hawthornes  removed  to  the  Berkshire  Hills, 
where  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables  was  written. 
It  was  published  in  1851,  and  proved  almost  as 
successful  as  The  Scarlet  Letter.  After  a short  va- 
cation he  began  the  Wonder  Book , that  most  delight- 
ful of  all  story-books  for  boys  and  girls.  In  No- 
vember, 1851,  he  removed  to  Boston,  and  began  at 
once  The  Blithedale  Romance.  This  story,  describ- 
ing the  life  at  Brook  Farm  (where  all  the  authors 
went,  Hawthorne  among  the  number,  and  milked 
cows  and  hoed  potatoes  and  weeded  carrots),  was 
published  in  1852,  and  brought  to  Hawthorne  more 
friends  than  ever.  He  now  bought  a house  in  Con- 
cord; but  he  was  soon  to  leave  it  for  a stay  of  some 


20 


HAWTHORNE" 


years  in  Europe.  In  the  summer  of  1852  he  wrote 
a campaign  life  of  his  college  friend,  Franklin 
Pierce,  who  had  been  nominated  for  the  Presidency 
of  the  United  States.  When  Pierce  was  elected  he 
appointed  Hawthorne  consul  at  Liverpool,  an  office 
supposed  to  be  worth  $20,000  a year.  So  at  last  he 
was  wealthy  as  well  as  famous — at  least  he  could 
live  comfortably,  and  travel  about  on  the  continent 
of  Europe,  and  enjoy  the  many  friends  his  literary 
work  had  made  for  him.  While  in  Rome  he  wrote 
The  Marble  Faun , and  to  this  period  we  owe  the 
delightful  Note  Books. 

He  returned  to  his  home  in  Concord  in  1861,  just 
as  the  Civil  War  was  breaking  out.  His  work  was 
now  nearly  accomplished.  He  still  wrote  articles 
from  time  to  time,  and  attempted  more  stories,  but 
his  health  was  failing.  In  1864  he  started  for  a 
journey  south  with  his  friend  and  publisher,  Mr. 
Ticknor;  but  Mr.  Ticknor  suddenly  died,  and,  al- 
most prostrated  by  the  shock,  Hawthorne  returned 
home,  and  soon  after  started  on  a journey  into  New 
Hampshire  with  his  old  friend,  Franklin  Pierce. 
They  reached  Plymouth,  and  put  up  at  the  Pemige- 
wassett  House.  During  the  night  of  the  18th  of 
May,  Mr.  Pierce  went  into  his  friend’s  room  to  see 
how  he  was  resting,  and  found  that  he  was  dead. 

America’s  Greatest  Novelist. 

No  one  will  dispute  the  statement  that  Haw- 
thorne is  America’s  greatest  novelist,  as  Longfel- 
low, his  classmate  and  friend,  is  America’s  greatest 
poet.  As  a short  story  writer  Poe  is  in  some  ways 


LIFE 


21 


quite  above  Hawthorne,  and  his  three  poems,  “The 
Raven,”  “Annabel  Lee,”  and  “The  Bells,”  have  a 
striking  originality  which  Longfellow  wholly  lacked. 
He  had  the  elements  of  a great  writer  of  fiction 
and  a great  poet;  yet  he  missed  of  being  both.  He 
never  even  attempted  a novel,  so  it  is  only  indirectly 
that  he  may  dispute  Hawthorne’s  title  to  being  our 
greatest  novelist. 

But  why  is  Hawthorne  so  great? 

1.  His  artistic  management  of  language  has  sel- 
dom been  surpassed  by  any  writer  of  the  English 
language.  His  sentences  are  musical,  imaginative, 
expressive,  delicate,  and  masterful.  He  never  uses 
a word  without  bringing  out  its  meaning  in  full 
force,  and  his  arrangement  of  sentences  and  images 
is  never  abrupt  or  anything  but  logical  and  graceful. 
Even  the  ordinary  reader  will  find  in  his  language 
a wonderful  charm. 

2.  But  beauty  of  language  alone  will  not  make 
a great  writer.  The  true  secret  of  greatness  in 
writing  fiction  lies  in  mastery  of  human  emotion.  In 
The  Scarlet  Letter,  for  instance,  Hawthorne  has 
brought  together  three  intense  and  powerful  char- 
acters, Hester,  the  minister,  and  Roger  Chilling- 
worth,  and  has  set  them  off,  so  to  speak,  by  other 
clearly  drawn  human  beings,  notably  the  child  Pearl 
and  Mistress  Hibbins  the  so-called  witch.  Hester, 
sinner  though  she  be,  rises  above  her  weakness  and 
her  ignominy;  the  minister,  with  all  his  gifts,  sinks 
a victim  to  his  own  weakness;  Roger  Chillingworth 


22  HAWTHORNE 

is  the  incarnation  of  the  must  subtle  revenge  and 
malice. 

3.  Unlike  the  great  English  writers,  such  as  Scott, 
Dickens  and  Thackeray  Hawthorne  wastes  no  words, 
but  offers  his  story  as  a complete,  sufficiently  brief, 
dramatic  whole.  In  this  he  displays  a superior  art 
which  may  be  regarded  as  characteristically  Ameri- 
can. 

Hawthorne's  Faults. 

But  Hawthorne  also  has  faults,  which  we  must 
bear  in  mind  or  we  will  not  rightly  understand  and 
appreciate  his  work.  We  must  not  expect  to  find 
in  him  what  is  not  there,  or  we  shall  run  the  risk 
of  throwing  his  books  aside  in  disgust. 

First,  he  is  cold.  We  do  not  find  in  his  characters 
warmth  of  affection  or  even  passion.  He  knows 
that  they  have  passions,  and  he  makes  intellectual 
allowance  for  them,  and  perhaps  analyzes  them 
with  keenness  and  intelligence,  but  through  all  his 
pages  we  never  feel  them.  It  is  hard  to  imagine 
how  Hester  Prynne  and  Arthur  Dimmesdale  came 
to  commit  their  fault,  or  how  Roger  Chillingworth 
married  Flester  or  cared  for  her  in  such  a way 
that  he  would  have  any  motive  for  revenge.  Haw- 
thorne takes  all  these  things  for  granted,  and  de- 
votes his  thought  to  working  out  the  colder  emo- 
tions of  remorse,  revenge,  and  defiance  of  the  world. 

Moreover,  Hawthorne  has  an  inveterate  tendency 
to  introduce  some  fanciful  miracle  just  at  the  crit- 
ical moment.  He  never  commits  himself  sufficiently 
to  say  he  believes  it  to  be  anything  more  than  the 


LIFE 


23 


work  of  somebody's  imagination ; but  he  never 
fails  to  suggest  it.  For  instance,  in  “Drowne’s 
Wooden  Image”  we  are  given  to  suppose  that  the 
wooden  image  may  have  come  to  life  and  walked 
down  the  street  arm  in  arm  with  the  shipmaster. 
Of  course  we  are  told  of  the  Portuguese  girl  who 
was  no  doubt  the  model  for  the  image,  but  the 
impression  of  the  miracle  still  remains  and  gives 
a supernatural  tinge  to  the  story.  There  is  not  one 
of  Hawthorne’s  tales  that  is  not  colored  with  this 
rosy  light  of  the  supernatural. 

We  have  spoken  of  these  characteristics  as  faults. 
They  are  such  only  when  we  are  not  on  our  guard 
against  them,  or  when  we  expect  something  else  in 
their  place.  If  we  comprehend  them  they  become 
the  legitimate  expression  of  a delicate,  bold,  and 
penetrating  imagination,  as  wierd  and  wonderful  in 
its  way  as  the  dreams  of  the  alchemists  Hawthorne 
is  so  fond  of  portraying.  They  give  the  character 
of  escaping  beauty  to  all  his  writing,  making  us 
feel  the  magic  of  genius.  In  truth,  there  is  hardly 
another  writer  in  the  history  of  literature  who  has 
the  quality  in  such  perfection.  There  are  few  read- 
ers who  can  rightly  understand  and  appreciate  it, 
but  to  those  few  it  has  a rare  charm. 


Sherwin  Cody. 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE 


One  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  going  down, 
a mother  and  her  little  boy  sat  at  the  door  of  their 
cottage,  talking  about  the  Great  Stone  Face.  They 
had  but  to  lift  their  eyes,  and  there  it  was  plainly 
to  be  seen,  though  miles  away,  with  the  sunshine 
brightening  all  its  features. 

And  what  was  the  Great  Stone  Face? 

Embosomed  amongst  a family  of  lofty  mountains, 
there  was  a valley  so  spacious  that  it  contained 
many  thousand  inhabitants.  Some  of  these  good 
people  dwelt  in  log  huts,  with  the  black  forest  all 
around  them,  on  the  steep  and  difficult  hillsides. 
Others  had  their  homes  in  comfortable  farmhouses, 
and  cultivated  the  rich  soil  on  the  gentle  slopes  or 
level  surfaces  of  the  valley.  Others,  again,  were 
congregated  into  populous  villages,  where  some  wild 
highland  rivulet,  tumbling  down  from  its  birthplace 
in  the  upper  mountain  region,  had  been  caught  and 
tamed  by  human  cunning,  and  compelled  to  turn 
the  machinery  of  cotton  factories.  The  inhabitants 
of  this  valley,  in  short,  were  numerous,  and  of 
many  modes  of  life.  But  all  of  them,  grown  people 
and  children,  had  a kind  of  familiarity  with  the 
Great  Stone  Face,  although  some  possessed  the  gift 
of  distinguishing  this  grand  natural  phenomenon 
more  perfectly  than  many  of  their  neighbors, 

25 


26 


HAWTHORNE 


The  Great  Stone  Face,  then,  was  a work  of  Nature 
in  her  mood  of  majestic  playfulness,  formed  on  the 
perpendicular  side  of  a mountain  by  some  immense 
rocks,  which  had  been  thrown  together  in  such  a 
position  as,  when  viewed  at  a proper  distance,  pre- 
cisely to  resemble  the  features  of  the  human  coun- 
tenance. It  seemed  as  if  an  enormous  giant,  or  a 
Titan,  had  sculptured  his  own  likeness  on  the  preci- 
pice. There  was  the  broad  arch  of  the  forehead, 
a hundred  feet  in  height;  the  nose,  with  its  long 
bridge;  and  the  vast  lips,  which,  if  they  could  have 
spoken,  would  have  rolled  their  thunder  accents 
from  one  end  of  the  valley  to  the  other.  True  it  is, 
that  if  the  spectator  approached  too  near,  he  lost  the 
outline  of  the  gigantic  visage,  and  could  discern 
only  a heap  of  ponderous  and  gigantic  rocks,  piled 
in  chaotic  ruin  one  upon  another.  Retracing  his 
steps,  however,  the  wondrous  features  would  again 
be  seen;  and  the  farther  he  withdrew  from  them, 
the  more  like  a human  face,  with  all  its  original 
divinity  intact,  did  they  appear,  until,  as  it  grew 
dim  in  the  distance,  with  the  clouds  and  glorified 
‘*apor  of  the  mountains  clustering  about  it,  the 
Great  Stone  Face  seemed  positively  to  be  alive. 

It  was  a happy  lot  for  children  to  grow  up  to  man- 
hood or  womanhood  with  the  Great  Stone  Face 
before  their  eyes,  for  all  the  features  were  noble, 
and  the  expression  was  at  once  grand  and  sweet, 
as  if  it  were  the  glow  of  a vast,  warm  heart  that 
embraced  all  mankind  in  its  affections  and  had  room 
for  more.  It  was  an  education  only  to  look  at  it. 
According  to  the  belief  of  many  people,  the  valley 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE 


2? 


owed  much  of  its  fertility  to  this  benign  aspect  that 
was  continually  beaming  over  it,  illuminating  the 
clouds  and  infusing  its  tenderness  into  the  sunshine. 

As  we  began  with  saying,  a mother  and  her  little 
boy  sat  at  their  cottage  door,  gazing  at  the  Great 
Stone  Face,  and  talking  about  it.  The  child's  name 
was  Ernest. 

“Mother,”  said  he,  while  the  Titanic  visage  smiled 
on  him,  “I  wish  that  it  could  speak,  for  it  looks  so 
very  kindly  that  its  voice  must  needs  be  pleasant. 
If  I were  to  see  a man  with  such  a face,  I should 
love  him  dearly.” 

“If  an  old  prophecy  should  come  to  pass,”  an- 
swered his  mother,  “we  may  see  a man,  some  time 
or  other,  with  exactly  such  a face  as  that.” 

“What  prophecy  do  you  mean,  dear  mother?” 
eagerly  inquired  Ernest.  “Pray  tell  me  all  about  it !” 

So  his  mother  told  him  a story  that  her  own 
mother  had  told  to  her  when  she  herself  was  younger 
than  little  Ernest;  a story,  not  of  things  that  were 
past,  but  of  what  was  yet  to  come;  a story,  never- 
theless, so  very  old,  that  even  the  Indians,  who 
formerly  inhabited  this  valley,  had  heard  it  from 
their  forefathers,  to  whom,  as  they  affirmed,  it  had 
been  murmured  by  the  mountain  streams  and  whis- 
pered by  the  wind  among  the  treetops.  The  pur- 
port was  that  at  some  future  day  a child  should  be 
born  hereabouts  who  was  destined  to  become  the 
greatest  and  noblest  personage  of  his  time,  and 
whose  countenance  in  manhood  should  bear  an 
exact  resemblance  to  the  Great  Stone  Face.  Not 
a few  old-fashioned  people,  and  young  ones  likewise, 
in  the  ardor  of  their  hopes,  still  cherished  an  en- 


28 


HAWTHORNE 


during  faith  in  this  old  prophecy.  But  others,  who 
had  seen  more  of  the  world,  had  watched  and 
waited  till  they  were  weary,  and  had  beheld  no  man 
with  such  a face,  nor  any  man  that  proved  to  be 
much  greater  or  nobler  than  his  neighbors,  con- 
cluded it  to  be  nothing  but  an  idle  tale.  At  all 
events,  the  great  man  of  the  prophecy  had  not  yet 
appeared. 

“O  mother,  dear  mother !”  cried  Ernest,  clapping 
his  hands  above  his  head,  “I  do  hope  that  I shall 
live  to  see  him!” 

His  mother  was  an  affectionate  and  thoughtful 
woman,  and  felt  that  it  was  wisest  not  to  discourage 
the  generous  hopes  of  her  little  boy.  So  she  only 
said  to  him,  “Perhaps  you  may.” 

And  Ernest  never  forgot  the  story  that  his  mother 
told  him.  It  was  always  in  his  mind,  whenever  he 
looked  upon  the  Great  Stone  Face.  He  spent  his 
childhood  in  the  log  cottage  where  he  was  born, 
and  was  dutiful  to  his  mother,  and  helpful  to  her  in 
many  things,  assisting  her  much  with  his  little 
hands,  and  more  with  his  loving  heart.  In  this 
manner,  from  a happy  yet  often  pensive  child,  he 
grew  up  to  be  a mild,  quiet,  unobtrusive  boy,  and 
sun-browned  with  labor  in  the  fields,  but  with  more 
intelligence  brightening  his  aspect  than  is  seen  in 
many  lads  who  have  been  taught  at  famous  schools. 
Yet  Ernest  had  had  no  teacher,  save  only  that  the 
Great  Stone  Face  became  one  to  him.  When  the 
toil  of  the  day  was  over,  he  would  gaze  at  it  for 
hours,  until  he  began  to  imagine  that  those  vast 
features  recognized  him,  and  gave  him  a smile  of 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE 


29 


kindness  and  encouragement,  responsive  to  his  own 
look  of  veneration.  We  must  not  take  upon  us  to 
affirm  that  this  was  a mistake,  although  the  Face 
may  have  looked  no  more  kindly  at  Ernest  than  at 
all  the  world  besides.  But  the  secret  was  that  the 
boy's  tender  and  confiding  simplicity  discerned  what 
other  people  could  not  see;  and  thus  the  love  which 
was  meant  for  all  became  his  peculiar  portion. 

About  this  time  there  went  a rumor  throughout 
the  valley  that  the  great  man,  foretold  from  ages 
long  ago,  who  was  to  bear  a resemblance  to  the 
Great  Stone  Face,  had  appeared  at  last.  It  seems 
that  many  years  before  a young  man  had  migrated 
from  the  valley  and  settled  at  a distant  seaport, 
where,  after  getting  together  a little  money,  he  had 
set  up  as  a shopkeeper.  His  name — but  I could 
never  learn  whether  it  was  his  real  one  or  a nick- 
name that  had  grown  out  of  his  habits  and  success 
in  life — was  Gathergold.  Being  shrewd  and  active, 
and  endowed  by  Providence  with  that  inscrutable 
faculty  which  develops  itself  in  what  the  world 
calls  luck,  he  became  an  exceedingly  rich  merchant, 
and  owner  of  a whole  fleet  of  bulky-bottomed  ships. 
All  the  countries  of  the  globe  appeared  to  join  hands 
for  the  mere  purpose  of  adding  heap  after  heap  to 
the  mountainous  accumulation  of  this  one  man's 
wealth.  The  cold  regions  of  the  North,  almost 
within  the  gloom  and  shadow  of  the  Arctic  Circle, 
sent  him  their  tribute  in  the  shape  of  furs;  hot 
Africa  sifted  for  him  the  golden  sands  of  her  rivers, 
and  gathered  up  the  ivory  tusks  of  her  great  ele- 
phants out  of  the  forests;  the  East  came  bringing 


30 


HAWTHORNE 


him  the  rich  shawls  and  spices  and  teas,  and  the 
effulgence  of  diamonds,  and  the  gleaming  purity 
of  large  pearls.  The  ocean,  not  to  be  behindhand 
with  the  earth,  yielded  up  her  mighty  whales,  that 
Mr.  Gathergold  might  sell  their  oil  and  make  a 
profit  on  it.  Be  the  original  commodity  what  it 
might,  it  was  gold  within  his  grasp.  It  might  be 
said  of  him,  as  of  Midas  in  the  fable,  that  whatever 
he  touched  with  his  finger  immediately  glistened  and 
grew  yellow,  and  was  changed  at  once  into  sterling 
metal,  or,  which  suited  him  still  better,  into  piles 
of  coin.  And  when  Mr.  Gathergold  had  become  so 
very  rich  that  it  would  have  taken  him  a hundred 
years  only  to  count  his  wealth,  he  bethought  him- 
self of  his  native  valley,  and  resolved  to  go  back 
thither  and  end  his  days  where  he  was  born.  With 
this  purpose  in  view,  he  sent  a skillful  architect  to 
build  him  such  a palace  as  should  be  fit  for  a man 
of  his  vast  wealth  to  live  in. 

As  I have  said  above,  it  had  already  been  rumored 
in  the  valley  that  Mr.  Gathergold  had  turned  out  to 
be  the  prophetic  personage  so  long  and  vainly  looked 
for,  and  that  his  visage  was  the  perfect  and  un- 
deniable similitude  of  the  Great  Stone  Face.  Peo- 
ple were  the  more  ready  to  believe  that  this  must 
needs  be  the  fact  when  they  beheld  the  splendid 
edifice  that  arose,  as  if  by  enchantment,  on  the  site 
of  his  father’s  old  weather-beaten  farmhouse.  The 
exterior  was  of  marble,  so  dazzlingly  white  that  it 
seemed  as  though  the  whole  structure  might  melt 
away  in  the  sunshine,  like  those  humbler  ones  which 
Mr.  Gathergold,  in  his  young  play-days,  before  his 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE  31 

fingers  were  gifted  with  the  touch  of  transmutation, 
had  been  accustomed  to  build  of  snow.  It  had  a 
richly  ornamented  portico,  supported  by  tall  pillars, 
beneath  which  was  a lofty  door,  studded  with  silver 
knobs,  and  made  of  a kind  of  variegated  wood  that 
had  been  brought  from  beyond  the  sea.  The  win- 
dows, from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling  of  each  stately 
apartment,  were  composed,  respectively,  of  but  one 
enormous  pane  of  glass,  so  transparently  pure  that 
it  was  said  to  be  a finer  medium  than  even  the  vacant 
atmosphere.  Hardly  anybody  had  been  permitted  to 
see  the  interior  of  this  palace;  but  it  was  reported, 
and  with  good  semblance  of  truth,  to  be  far  more 
gorgeous  than  the  outside,  insomuch  that  whatever 
was  iron  or  brass  in  other  houses  was  silver  or 
gold  in  this ; and  Mr.  Gathergold’s  bedchamber,  es- 
pecially, made  such  a glittering  appearance  that  no 
ordinary  man  would  have  been  able  to  close  his 
eyes  there.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Gathergold 
was  now  so  inured  to  wealth  that  perhaps  he  could 
not  have  closed  his  eyes  unless  where  the  gleam  o. 
it  was  certain  to  find  its  way  beneath  his  eyelids. 

In  due  time  the  mansion  was  finished;  next  came 
the  upholsterers,  with  magnificent  furniture;  then  a 
whole  troop  of  black  and  white  servants,  the  har- 
bingers of  Mr.  Gathergold,  who,  in  his  own  majestic 
person,  was  expected  to  arrive  at  sunset.  Our  friend 
Ernest,  meanwhile,  had  been  deeply  stirred  by  the 
idea  that  the  great  man,  the  noble  man,  the  man  of 
prophecy,  after  so  many  ages  of  delay,  was  at  length 
to  be  made  manifest  to  his  native  valley.  He  knew, 
boy  as  he  was,  that  there  were  a thousand  ways  in 


32  HAWTHORNE 

which  Mr.  Gathergold,  with  his  vast  wealth,  might 
transform  himself  into  an  angel  of  beneficence,  and 
assume  a control  over  human  affairs  as  wide  and 
benignant  as  the  smile  of  the  Great  Stone  Face. 
Full  of  faith  and  hope,  Ernest  doubted  not  that 
what  the  people  said  was  true,  and  that  now  he  was 
to  behold  the  living  likeness  of  those  wondrous  fea- 
tures on  the  mountain-side.  While  the  boy  was 
still  gazing  up  the  valley,  and  fancying,  as  he  always 
did,  that  the  Great  Stone  Face  returned  his  gaze 
and  looked  kindly  at  him,  the  rumbling  of  wheels 
was  heard  approaching  swiftly  along  the  winding 
road. 

“Here  he  comes !”  cried  a group  of  people  who 
were  assembled  to  witness  the  arrival.  Here  comes 
the  great  Mr.  Gathergold!” 

A carriage,  drawn  by  four  horses,  dashed  round 
the  turn  of  the  road.  Within  it,  thrust  partly  out 
of  the  window,  appeared  the  physiognomy  of  the 
old  man,  with  a skin  as  yellow  as  if  his  own  Midas- 
hand  had  transmuted  it.  He  had  a low  forehead, 
small,  sharp  eyes,  puckered  about  with  innumerable 
wrinkles,  and  very  thin  lips,  which  he  made  still 
thinner  by  pressing  them  forcibly  together. 

“The  very  image  of  the  Great  Stone  Face! 
shouted  the  people.  “Sure  enough,  the  old  prophecy 
is  true,  and  here  we  have  the  great  man  come  at 
last.” 

And,  what  greatly  perplexed  Ernest,  they  seemed 
actually  to  believe  that  here  was  the  likeness  which 
they  spoke  of.  By  the  roadside  there  chanced  to  be 
•in  old  beggar-woman  and  two  little  beggar-children, 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE 


33 


itragglers  from  some  far-off  region,  who,  as  the 
:arriage  rolled  onward,  held  out  their  hands  and 
ifted  up  their  doleful  voices,  most  piteously  beseech- 
ng  charity.  A yellow  claw — the  very  same  that  had 
:lawed  together  so  much  wealth — poked  itself  out 
)f  the  coach-window  and  dropped  some  copper 
:oins  upon  the  ground;  so  that,  though  the  great 
nan’s  name  seems  to  have  been  Gathergold,  he 
night  just  as  suitably  have  been  nicknamed  Scatter- 
:opper.  Still,  nevertheless,  with  an  earnest  shout, 
md  evidently  with  as  much  good  faith  as  ever,  the 
>eople  bellowed: 

“He  is  the  very  image  of  the  Great  Stone  Facer* 

But  Ernest  turned  sadly  from  the  wrinkled 
shrewdness  of  that  sordid  visage,  and  gazed  up  the 
valley,  where,  amid  a gathering  mist,  gilded  by  the 
iast  sunbeams,  he  could  still  distinguish  those  glori- 
ous features  which  had  impressed  themselves  into  his 
soul.  Their  aspect  cheered  him.  What  did  the 
benign  lips  seem  to  say? 

“He  will  come!  Fear  not,  Ernest;  the  man  will 
:ome !” 

The  years  went  on,  and  Ernest  ceased  to  be  a 
boy.  He  had  grown  to  be  a young  man  now.  He 
attracted  little  notice  from  the  other  inhabitants  of 
the  valley;  for  they  saw  nothing  remarkable  in  his 
way  of  life,  save  that,  when  the  labor  of  the  day 
was  over,  he  still  loved  to  go  apart  and  gaze  and 
meditate  upon  the  Great  Stone  Face.  According  to 
their  idea  of  the  matter,  it  was  folly,  indeed,  but 
pardonable,  inasmuch  as  Ernest  was  industrious, 
kind,  and  neighborly,  and  neglected  no  duty  for  the 


34 


HAWTHORNE 


sake  of  indulging  this  idle  habit.  They  knew  not 
that  the  Great  Stone  Face  had  become  a teacher  to 
him,  and  that  the  sentiment  which  was  expressed 
in  it  would  enlarge  the  young  man’s  heart,  and  fill 
it  with  wider  and  deeper  sympathies  than  other 
hearts.  They  knew  not  that  thence  would  come  a 
better  wisdom  than  could  be  learned  from  books, 
and  a better  life  than  could  be  molded  on  the  de- 
faced example  of  other  human  lives.  Neither  did 
Ernest  know  that  the  thoughts  and  affections  which 
came  to  him  so  naturally,  in  the  fields  and  at  the 
fireside,  and  wherever  he  communed  with  himself, 
were  of  a higher  tone  than  those  which  all  men 
shared  with  him.  A simple  soul — simple  as  when 
his  mother  first  taught  him  the  old  prophecy — he 
beheld  the  marvelous  features  beaming  adown  the 
valley,  and  still  wondered  that  their  human  counter- 
part was  so  long  in  making  his  appearance. 

By  this  time  poor  Mr.  Gathergold  was  dead  and 
buried;  and  the  oddest  part  of  the  matter  was,  that 
his  wealth,  which  was  the  body  and  spirit  of  his 
existence,  had  disappeared  before  his  death,  leaving 
nothing  of  him  but  a living  skeleton,  covered  over 
with  a wrinkled  yellow  skin.  Since  the  melting  away 
of  his  gold,  it  had  been  very  generally  conceded  that 
there  was  no  such  striking  resemblance,  after  all, 
betwixt  the  ignoble  features  of  the  ruined  merchant 
and  that  majestic  face  upon  the  mountain-side.  So 
the  people  ceased  to  honor  him  during  his  lifetime, 
"jid  quietly  consigned  him  to  forgetfulness  after  his 
decease.  Once  in  a while,  it  is  true,  his  memory 
was  brought  up  in  connection  with  the  magnificent 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE  85 

palace  which  he  had  built,  and  which  had  long  ago 
been  turned  into  a hotel  for  the  accommodation  of 
strangers,  multitudes  of  whom  came  every  summer 
to  visit  that  famous  natural  curiosity,  the  Great 
Stone  Face.  Thus,  Mr.  Gathergold,  being  discred- 
ited and  thrown  into  the  shade,  the  man  of  prophecy 
was  yet  to  come. 

It  so  happened  that  a native-born  son  of  the  val- 
ley, many  years  before,  had  enlisted  as  a soldier, 
and  after  a great  deal  of  hard  fighting  had  now 
become  an  illustrious  commander.  Whatever  he 
may  be  called  in  history,  he  was  known  in  camps 
and  on  the  battlefield  under  the  nickname  of  Old 
Blood-and-Thunder.  This  war-worn  veteran,  being 
now  infirm  with  age  and  wounds,  and  weary  of  the 
turmoil  of  a military  life,  and  of  the  roll  of  the 
drum  and  the  clangor  of  the  trumpet  that  had  so 
long  been  ringing  in  his  ears,  had  lately  signified 
a purpose  of  returning  to  his  native  valley,  hoping 
to  find  repose  where  he  remembered  to  have  left  it. 
The  inhabitants,  his  old  neighbors  and  their  grown- 
up children,  were  resolved  to  welcome  the  renowned 
warrior  with  a salute  of  cannon  and  a public  dinner; 
and  all  the  more  enthusiastically,  it  being  affirmed 
that  now,  at  last,  the  likeness  of  the  Great  Stone 
Face  had  actually  appeared.  An  aid-de-camp  of 
Old  Blood-and-Thunder,  traveling  through  the  val- 
ley, was  said  to  have  been  struck  with  the  resem- 
blance. Moreover,  the  schoolmates  and  early  ac- 
quaintances of  the  general  were  ready  to  testify,  on 
oath,  that,  to  the  best  of  their  recollection,  the  afore- 
said general  had  been  exceedingly  like  the  majestic 


HAWTHORNE 


image,  even  when  a boy,  only  that  the  idea  had  never 
occurred  to  them  at  that  period.  Great,  therefore, 
was  the  excitement  throughout  the  valley;  and  many 
people  who  had  never  once  thought  of  glancing  at 
the  Great  Stone  Face  for  years  before,  now  spent 
their  time  in  gazing  at  it,  for  the  sake  of  knowing 
exactly  how  General  Blood-and-Thunder  looked. 

On  the  day  of  the  great  festival,  Ernest  with  all 
the  other  people  of  the  valley  left  their  work  and 
proceeded  to  the  spot  where  the  sylvan  banquet  was 
prepared.  As  he  approached,  the  loud  voice  of  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Battleblast  was  heard,  beseeching  a bless- 
ing on  the  good  things  set  before  them,  and  on  the 
distinguished  friend  of  peace  in  whose  honor  they 
were  assembled.  The  tables  were  arranged  in  a 
cleared  space  of  the  woods,  shut  in  by  the  surround- 
ing trees,  except  where  a vista  opened  eastward,  and 
afforded  a distant  view  of  the  Great  Stone  Face. 
Over  the  general’s  chair,  which  was  a relic  from  the 
home  of  Washington,  there  was  an  arch  of  verdant 
boughs,  with  the  laurel  profusely  intermixed,  and 
surmounted  by  his  country’s  banner,  beneath  which 
he  had  won  his  victories.  Our  friend  Ernest  raised 
himself  on  his  tiptoes,  in  hopes  to  get  a glimpse  of 
the  celebrated  guest;  but  there  was  a mighty  crowd 
about  the  tables  anxious  to  hear  the  toasts  and 
speeches,  and  to  catch  any  word  that  might  fall 
from  the  general  in  reply;  and  a volunteer  company, 
doing  duty  as  a guard,  pricked  ruthlessly  with  their 
bayonets  at  any  particularly  quiet  person  among  the 
throng.  So  Ernest,  being  of  an  unobtrusive  charac- 
ter, was  thrust  quite  into  the  background,  where  he 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE 


37 


could  see  no  more  of  Old  Blood-and-Thunder's 
physiognomy  than  if  it  had  been  still  blazing  on  the 
battlefield.  To  console  himself  he  turned  toward 
the  Great  Stone  Face,  which,  like  a faithful  and 
long-remembered  friend,  looked  back  and  smiled 
upon  him  through  the  vista  of  the  forest.  Meantime, 
however,  he  could  overhear  the  remarks  of  various 
individuals  who  were  comparing  the  features  of  the 
hero  with  the  face  on  the  distant  mountain-side. 

“Tis  the  same  face,  to  a hair!”  cried  one  man, 
cutting  a caper  for  joy. 

“Wonderfully  like,  that's  a fact!”  responded  an- 
other. 

“Like ! why,  I call  it  Old  Blood-and-Thunder  him- 
self, in  a monstrous  looking-glass !”  cried  a third. 
“And  why  not?  He's  the  greatest  man  of  this  or 
any  other  age,  beyond  a doubt.” 

And  then  all  three  of  the  speakers  gave  a great 
shout,  which  communicated  electricity  to  the  crowd, 
and  called  forth  a roar  from  a thousand  voices,  that 
went  reverberating  for  miles  among  the  mountains, 
until  you  might  have  supposed  that  the  Great  Stone 
Face  had  poured  its  thunder-breath  into  the  cry. 
All  these  comments,  and  this  vast  enthusiasm,  served 
the  more  to  interest  our  friend;  nor  did  he  think  of 
questioning  that  now,  at  length,  the  mountain-visage 
had  found  its  human  counterpart.  It  is  true,  Ernest 
had  imagined  that  this  long-loo ked-for  personage 
would  appear  in  the  character  of  a man  of  peace, 
uttering  wisdom,  and  doing  good,  and  making  peo- 
ple happy.  But,  taking  an  habitual  breadth  of  view, 
with  all  his  simplicity,  he  contended  that  Providence 


38 


HAWTHORNE 


should  choose  its  own  method  of  blessing  mankind, 
and  could  conceive  that  this  great  end  might  be  ef- 
fected even  by  a warrior  and  a bloody  sword,  should 
inscrutable  wisdom  see  fit  to  order  matters  so. 

“The  general ! the  general !”  was  now  the  cry. 
“Hush ! silence ! Old  Blood-and-Thunder’s  going  to 
make  a speech.” 

Even  so;  for,  the  cloth  being  removed,  the  gen- 
eral’s health  had  been  drunk,  amid  shouts  of  ap- 
plause, and  he  now  stood  upon  his  feet  to  thank  the 
company.  Ernest  saw  him.  There  he  was,  over 
the  shoulders  of  the  crowd,  from  the  two  glittering 
epaulets  and  embroidered  collar  upward,  beneath  the 
arch  of  green  boughs  with  intertwined  laurel,  and 
the  banner  drooping  as  if  to  shade  his  brow ! And 
there,  too,  visible  in  the  same  glance,  through  the 
vista  of  the  forest,  appeared  the  Great  Stone  Face! 
And  was  there,  indeed,  such  a resemblance  as  the 
crowd  had  testified?  Ala.s?  Ernest  could  not  recog- 
nize it!  He  beheld  a war-worn  and  weather-beaten 
countenance,  full  of  energy,  and  expressive  of  an 
iron  will;  but  the  gentle  wisdom,  the  deep,  broad, 
tender  sympathies,  were  altogether  wanting  in  Old 
Blood-and-Thunder’s  visage ; and  even  if  the  Great 
Stone  Face  had  assumed  his  look  of  stern  command* 
the  milder  traits  would  still  have  tempered  it. 

*This  is  not  the  man  of  prophecy,”  sighed  Ernest 
to  nimself,  as  he  made  his  way  out  of  the  throng 
“And  must  the  world  wait  longer  yet?” 

The  mists  had  congregated  about  the  distant 
mountain-side,  and  there  were  seen  the  grand  and 
awful  features  of  the  Great  Stone  Face,  awful  but 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE 


39 


benignant,  as  if  a mighty  angel  were  sitting  among 
the  hills,  and  enrobing  himself  in  a cloud-vesture  of 
gold  and  purple.  As  he  looked,  Ernest  could  hardly 
believe  ,but  that  a smile  beamed  over  the  whole 
visage,  with  a radiance  still  brightening,  although 
without  motion  of  the  lips.  It  was  probably  the  effect 
of  the  western  sunshine  melting  through  the  thinly 
diffused  vapors  that  had  swept  between  him  and  the 
object  that  he  gazed  at.  But — as  it  always  did — the 
aspect  of  his  marvelous  friend  made  Ernest  as  hope- 
ful as  if  he  had  never  hoped  in  vain. 

“Fear  not,  Ernest,”  said  his  heart,  even  as  if  the 
Great  Stone  Face  were  whispering  him — “fear  not, 
Ernest,  he  will  come." 

More  years  sped  swiftly  and  tranquilly  away.  Er- 
nest still  dwelt  in  his  native  valley,  and  was  now  a 
man  of  middle  age.  By  imperceptible  degrees,  he 
had  become  known  among  the  people.  Now,  as 
heretofore,  he  labored  for  his  bread,  and  was  the 
same  simple-hearted  man  that  he  had  always  been. 
But  he  had  thought  and  felt  so  much,  he  had  given 
so  many  of  the  best  hours  of  his  life  to  unworldly 
hopes  for  some  great  good  to  mankind,  that  it  seemed 
as  though  he  had  been  talking  with  the  angels,  and 
had  imbibed  a portion  of  their  wisdom  unawares. 
It  was  visible  in  the  calm  and  well-considered  benefi- 
cence of  his  daily  life,  the  quiet  stream  of  which 
had  made  a wide  margin  all  along  its  course. 
Not  a day  passed  by  that  the  world  was  not  the 
better  because  this  man,  humble  as  he  was,  had  lived. 
Fie  never  stepped  aside  from  his  own  path,  yet  would 
always  reach  a blessing  to  his  neighbor.  Almost  in- 


40 


HAWTHORNE 


voluntarily,  too,  he  had  become  a preacher.  The 
pure  and  high  simplicity  of  his  thought,  which,  as 
one  of  its  manifestations,  took  shape  in  the  good 
deeds  that  dropped  silently  from  his  hand,  flowed 
also  forth  in  speech.  He  uttered  truths  that  wrought 
upon  and  molded  the  lives  of  those  who  heard  him. 
His  auditors,  it  may  be,  never  suspected  that  Ernest, 
their  own  neighbor  and  familiar  friend,  was  more 
than  an  ordinary  man;  least  of  all  did  Ernest  him- 
self suspect  it;  but  inevitably  as  the  murmur  of  a 
rivulet,  came  thoughts  out  of  his  mouth  that  no 
other  human  lips  had  spoken. 

When  the  people's  minds  had  had  a little  time  to 
cool,  they  were  ready  enough  to  acknowledge  their 
mistake  in  imagining  a similarity  between  General 
Blood-and-Thunder’s  truculent  physiognomy  and  the 
benign  visage  on  the  mountain-side.  But  now,  again, 
there  were  reports  and  many  paragraphs  in  the  news- 
papers, affirming  that  the  likeness  of  the  Great  Stone 
Face  had  appeared  upon  the  broad  shoulders  of  a 
certain  eminent  statesman.  He,  like  Mr.  Gathergold 
and  Old  Blood-and-Thunder,  was  a native  of  the 
valley,  but  had  left  it  in  his  early  days,  and  taken 
up  the  trades  of  law  and  politics.  Instead  of  the  rich 
man’s  wealth  and  the  warrior’s  sword,  he  had  but  a 
tongue,  and  it  was  mightier  than  both  together.  So 
wonderfully  eloquent  was  he,  that  whatever  he  might 
choose  to  say,  his  auditors  had  no  choice  but  to  be- 
lieve him;  wrong  looked  like  right,  and  right  like 
wrong;  for  when  it  pleased  him  he  could  make  a 
kind  of  illuminated  fog  with  his  mere  breath,  and 
obscure  the  natural  daylight  with  it.  His  tongue, 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE 


41 


indeed,  was  a magic  instrument ; sometimes  it 
rumbled  like  the  thunder ; sometimes  it  warbled  like 
the  sweetest  music.  It  was  the  blast  of  war— -the 
song  of  peace;  and  it  seemed  to  have  a heart  in 
it  when  there  was  no  such  matter.  In  good  truth, 
he  was  a wondrous  man;  and  when  his  tongue  had 
acquired  him  all  other  imaginable  success — when  it 
had  been  heard  in  halls  of  state,  and  in  the  courts 
of  princes  and  potentates — after  it  had  made  him 
known  all  over  the  world,  even  as  a voice  crying 
from  shore  to  shore — it  finally  persuaded  his  coun- 
trymen to  select  him  for  the  Presidency.  Before  this 
time — indeed,  as  soon  as  he  began  to  grow  cele- 
brated— his  admirers  had  found  out  the  resemblance 
between  him  and  the  Great  Stone  Face ; and  so  much 
were  they  struck  by  it,  that  throughout  the  country 
this  distinguished  gentleman  was  known  by  the 
name  of  Old  Stony  Phiz.  The  phrase  was  consid- 
ered as  giving  a highly  favorable  aspect  to  his  po- 
litical prospects;  for,  as  is  likewise  the  case  with 
the  Popedom,  nobody  ever  becomes  President  with- 
out taking  a name  other  than  his  own. 

While  his  friends  were  doing  their  best  to  make 
him  President,  Old  Stony  Phiz,  as  he  was  called, 
set  out  on  a visit  to  the  valley  where  he  was  born. 
Of  course,  he  had  no  other  object  than  to  shake 
hands  with  his  fellow-citizens,  and  neither  thought 
nor  cared  about  any  effect  which  his  progress 
through  the  country  might  have  upon  the  election. 
Magnificent  preparations  were  made  to  receive  the 
illustrious  statesman;  a cavalcade  of  horsemen  set 
forth  to  meet  him  at  the  boundary-line  of  the  State, 


42 


HAWTHORNE 


and  all  the  people  left  their  business  and  gathered 
along  the  wayside  to  see  him  pass.  Among  these 
was  Ernest.  Though  more  than  once  disappointed, 
as  we  have  seen,  he  had  such  a hopeful  and  con- 
fiding nature  that  he  was  always  ready  to  believe 
in  whatever  seemed  beautiful  and  good.  He  kept 
his  heart  continually  open,  and  thus  was  sure  to 
catch  the  blessing  from  on  high  when  it  should 
came.  So  now  again,  as  buoyantly  as  ever,  he  went 
forth  to  behold  the  likeness  of  the  Great  Stone  Face. 

The  cavalcade  came  prancing  along  the  road,  with 
a great  clattering  of  hoofs  and  a mighty  cloud  of 
dust,  which  rose  up  so  dense  and  high  that  the 
visage  of  the  mountain-side  was  completely  hidden 
from  Ernest’s  eyes.  All  the  great  men  of  the 
neighborhood  were  there  on  horseback;  militia  offi- 
cers, in  uniform;  the  member  of  Congress;  the 
sheriff  of  the  county ; the  editors  of  newspapers ; and 
many  a farmer,  too,  had  mounted  his  patient  steed, 
with  his  Sunday  coat  upon  his  back.  It  really  was 
a very  brilliant  spectacle,  especially  as  there  were 
numerous  banners  haunting  over  the  cavalcade,  on 
some  of  which  were  gorgeous  portraits  of  the  illus- 
trious statesman  and  the  Great  Stone  Face,  smiling 
familiarly  at  one  another,  like  two  brothers.  If 
the  pictures  were  to  be  trusted,  the  mutual  re- 
semblance, it  must  be  confessed,  was  marvelous.  We 
must  not  forget  to  mention  that  there  was  a band 
of  music,  which  made  the  echoes  of  the  mountains 
ring  and  reverberate  with  the  loud  triumph  of  its 
strains ; so  that  airy  and  soul-thrilling  melodies 
broke  out  among  all  the  heights  and  hollows,  as  if 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE 


43 


every  nook  of  his  native  valley  had  found  a voice 
to  welcome  the  distinguished  guest.  But  the  grand- 
est effect  was  when  the  far-off  mountain  precipice 
flung  back  the  music;  for  then  the  Great  Stone  Face 
itself  seemed  to  be  swelling  the  triumphant  chorus, 
in  acknowledgment  that,  at  length,  the  man  of 
prophecy  was  come. 

All  this  while  the  people  were  throwing  up  their 
hats  and  shouting,  with  enthusiasm  so  contagious 
that  the  heart  of  Ernest  kindled  up,  and  he  likewise 
threw  up  his  hat  and  shouted  as  loudly  as  the 
loudest,  “Huzza  for  the  great  man!  Huzza  for  Old 
Stony  Phiz!”  But  as  yet  he  had  not  seen  him. 

“Here  he  is  now !”  cried  those  who  stood  near 
Ernest.  “There!  There!  Look  at  Old  Stony  Phiz 
and  then  at  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain,  and  see 
if  they  are  not  as  like  as  two  twin  brothers !” 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  gallant  array  came  an 
open  barouche,  drawn  by  four  white  horses;  and 
in  the  barouche,  with  his  massive  head  uncovered, 
sat  the  illustrious  statesman,  Old  Stony  Phiz  him- 
self. 

“Confess  it,”  said  one  of  Ernest’s  neighbors  to 
him,  “the  Great  Stone  Face  has  met  its  match  at 
last !” 

Now,  it  must  be  owned  that  at  his  first  glimpse  of 
the  countenance  which  was  bowing  and  smiling 
from  the  barouche,  Ernest  did  fancy  that  there  was 
a resemblance  between  it  and  the  old  familiar  face 
upon  the  mountain-side.  The  brow,  with  its  massive 
depth  and  loftiness,  and  all  the  other  features,  in- 
deed, were  boldly  and  strongly  hewn,  as  if  in  emula- 


HAWTHORNE 


44 

tion  of  a more  than  heroic,  of  a Titanic  model.  But 
the  sublimity  and  stateliness,  the  grand  expression  of 
a divine  sympathy,  that  illuminated  the  mountain 
visage  and  etherealized  its  ponderous  granite  sub- 
stance into  spirit,  might  here  be  sought  in  vain. 
Something  had  been  originally  left  out,  or  had  de- 
parted And  therefore  the  marvelously  gifted  states- 
man had  always  a weary  gloom  in  the  deep  caverns 
of  his  eyes,  as  of  a child  that  has  outgrown  its  play- 
things, or  a man  of  mighty  faculties  and  little  aims, 
whose  life,  with  all  its  high  performances,  was  vague 
and  empty,  because  no  high  purpose  had  endowed  it 
with  reality. 

Still,  Ernest's  neighbor  was  thrusting  his  elbow 
into  his  side,  and  pressing  him  for  an  answer. 

“Confess!  confess!  Is  not  he  the  very  picture  of 
your  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain?" 

“No!"  said  Ernest,  bluntly;  “I  see  little  or  no 
likeness." 

“Then  so  much  the  worse  for  the  Great  Stone 
Face!"  answered  his  neighbor;  and  again  he  set  up 
a shout  for  Old  Stony  Phiz. 

But  Ernest  turned  away,  melancholy,  and  almost 
despondent;  for  this  was  the  saddest  of  his  disap- 
pointments, to  behold  a man  who  might  have  ful- 
filled the  prophecy,  and  had  not  willed  to  do  so. 
Meantime,  the  cavalcade,  the  banners,  the  music,  and 
the  barouches  swept  past  him,  with  the  vociferous 
crowd  in  the  rear,  leaving  the  dust  to  settle  down, 
and  the  Great  Stone  Face  to  be  revealed  again,  with 
the  grandeur  that  it  had  worn  for  untold  centuries. 

“Lo,  here  I am,  Ernest!"  the  benign  lips  seemed 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE  45 

to  say.  “I  have  waited  longer  than  thou,  and  am 
not  yet  weary.  Fear  not;  the  man  will  come/’ 

The  years  hurried  onward,  treading  in  their  haste 
on  one  another’s  heels.  And  now  they  began  to  bring 
white  hairs  and  scatter  them  over  the  head  of  Er- 
nest; they  made  reverend  wrinkles  across  his  fore- 
head, and  furrows  in  his  cheeks.  He  was  an  aged 
man.  But  not  in  vain  had  he  grown  old;  more  than 
the  white  hairs  on  his  head  were  the  sage  thoughts 
in  his  mind;  his  wrinkles  and  furrows  were  inscrip- 
tions that  Time  had  graved,  and  in  which  he  had 
written  legends  of  wisdom  that  had  been  tested 
by  the  tenor  of  a life.  And  Ernest  had  ceased  to 
be  obscure.  Unsought  for,  undesired,  had  come  the 
fame  which  so  many  seek,  and  made  him  known  in 
the  great  world  beyond  the  limits  of  the  valley  in 
which  he  had  dwelt  so  quietly.  College  professors, 
and  even  the  active  men  of  cities,  came  from  far  to 
see  and  converse  with  Ernest;  for  the  report  had 
gone  abroad  that  this  simple  husbandman  had  ideas 
unlike  those  of  other  men,  not  gained  from  books, 
but  of  a higher  tone — a tranquil  and  familiar  majesty, 
as  if  he  had  been  talking  with  the  angels  as  his  daily 
friends.  Whether  it  were  sage,  statesman,  or  phil- 
anthropist, Ernest  received  these  visitors  with  the 
gentle  sincerity  that  had  characterized  him  from  boy- 
hood, and  spoke  freely  with  them  of  whatever  came 
uppermost  or  lay  deepest  in  his  heart  or  their  own. 
While  they  talked  together,  his  face  would  kindle, 
unawares,  and  shine  upon  them  as  with  a mild 
evening  light.  Pensive  with  the  fullness  of  such 
discourse,  his  guests  took  leave  and  went  their  way; 


46 


HAWTHORNE 


and  passing  up  the  valley,  paused  to  look  at  the 
Great  Stone  Face,  imagining  that  they  had  seen  its 
likeness  in  a human  countenance,  but  could  not  re- 
member where. 

While  Ernest  had  been  growing  up  and  growing 
old,  a bountiful  Providence  had  granted  a new  poet 
to  this  earth.  He  likewise  was  a native  of  the  valley, 
but  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life  at  a dis- 
tance from  that  romantic  region,  pouring  out  his 
sweet  music  amid  the  bustle  and  din  of  cities.  Often, 
however,  did  the  mountains  which  had  been  familiar 
to  him  in  his  childhood  lift  their  snowy  peaks  into 
the  clear  atmosphere  of  his  poetry.  Neither  was  the 
Great  Stone  Face  forgotten,  for  the  poet  had  cele- 
brated it  in  an  ode  which  was  grand  enough  to  have 
been  uttered  by  its  own  majestic  lips.  This  man  of 
genius,  we  may  say,  had  come  down  from  heaven 
with  wonderful  endowments.  If  he  sang  of  a moun- 
tain, the  eyes  of  all  mankind  beheld  a mightier 
grandeur  reposing  on  its  breast,  or  soaring  to  its 
summit,  than  had  before  been  seen  there.  If  his 
theme  were  a lovely  lake,  a celestial  smile  had  now 
been  thrown  over  it,  to  gleam  forever  on  its  surface. 
If  it  were  the  vast  old  sea,  even  the  deep  immensity 
of  its  dread  bosom  seemed  to  swell  the  higher,  as  if 
moved  by  the  emotions  of  the  song.  Thus  the  world 
assumed  another  and  a better  aspect  from  the  hour 
that  the  poet  blessed  it  with  his  happy  eyes.  The 
Creator  had  bestowed  him,  as  the  last  best  touch  to 
his  own  handiwork.  Creation  was  not  finished  till 
the  poet  came  to  interpret,  and  so  complete  it. 

The  effect  was  no  less  high  and  beautiful  when  his 


47 


THE  GREAT^STONE  FACE 

human  brethren  were  the  subject  of  his  verse.  The 
man  or  woman,  sordid  with  the  common  dust  of 
life,  who  crossed  his  daily  path,  and  the  little  child 
who  played  in  it,  were  glorified  if  he  beheld  them  in 
his  mood  of  poetic  faith.  He  showed  the  golden 
links  of  the  great  chain  that  intertwined  them  with 
an  angelic  kindred;  he  brought  out  the  hidden  traits 
of  celestial  birth  that  made  them  worthy  of  such 
kin.  Some,  indeed,  there  were  so  thought  to  show 
the  soundness  of  their  judgment  by  affirming  that  all 
the  beauty  and  dignity  of  the  natural  world  existed 
only  in  the  poet’s  fancy.  Let  such  men  speak  for 
themselves,  who  undoubtedly  appear  to  have  been 
spawned  forth  by  Nature  with  a contemptuous  bit- 
terness; she  having  plastered  them  up  out  of  her 
refuse  stuff,  after  all  the  swine  were  made.  As 
respects  all  things  else,  the  poet’s  ideal  was  the  truest 
truth. 

The  songs  of  this  poet  found  their  way  to  Ernest. 
He  read  them,  after  his  customary  toil,  seated  on  the 
bench  before  his  cottage  door,  where  for  such  a 
length  of  time  he  had  filled  his  repose  with  thought 
by  gazing  at  the  Great  Stone  Face.  And  now,  as  he 
read  stanzas  that  caused  the  soul  to  thrill  within 
him,  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  vast  countenance  beam- 
ing on  him  so  benignantly. 

“O  majestic  friend,”  he  murmured,  addressing  the 
Great  Stone  Face,  “is  not  this  man  worthy  to 
resemble  thee?” 

The  face  seemed  to  smile,  but  answered  not  a 
word. 

Now  it  happened  that  the  poet,  though  he  dwelt 


48 


HAWTHORNE 


so  far  away,  had  not  only  heard  of  Ernest,  but  had 
meditated  much  upon  his  character,  until  he  deemed 
nothing  so  desirable  as  to  meet  this  man  whose 
untaught  wisdom  walked  hand  in  hand  with  the 
noble  simplicity  of  his  life.  One  summer  morning, 
therefore,  he  took  passage  by  the  railroad,  and  in 
the  decline  of  the  afternoon  alighted  from  the  cars 
at  no  great  distance  from  Ernest’s  cottage.  The 
great  hotel,  which  had  formerly  been  the  palace  of 
Mr.  Gathergold,  was  close  at  hand,  but  the  poet, 
with  his  carpetbag  on  his  arm,  inquired  at  once 
where  Ernest  dwelt,  and  was  resolved  to  be  ac- 
cepted as  his  guest. 

Approaching  the  door,  he  there  found  the  good 
old  man,  holding  a volume  in  his  hand,  which  al- 
ternately he  read,  and  then,  with  a finger  between 
the  leaves,  looked  lovingly  at  the  Great  Stone  Face. 

“Good  evening,”  said  the  poet.  “Can  you  give 
a traveler  a night’s  lodging?” 

“Willingly,”  answered  Ernest;  and  then  he  added, 
smiling,  “Methinks  I never  saw  the  Great  Stone 
Face  look  so  hospitably  at  a stranger.” 

The  poet  sat  down  on  the  bench  beside  him,  and 
he  and  Ernest  talked  together.  Often  had  the  poet 
held  intercourse  with  the  wittiest  and  the  wisest, 
but  never  before  with  a man  like  Ernest,  whose 
thoughts  and  feelings  gushed  up  with  such  a natural 
freedom,  and  who  made  great  truths  so  familiar  by 
his  simple  utterance  of  them.  Angels,  as  had  been 
so  often  said,  seemed  to  have  wrought  with  him 
at  his  labor  in  the  fields;  and,  dwelling  with  angels 
as  friend  with  friends,  he  had  imbibed  the  sublimity 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE 


49 


of  their  ideas,  and  imbued  it  with  the  sweet  and 
lowly  charm  of  household  words.  So  thought  the 
poet.  And  Ernest,  on  the  other  hand,  was  moved 
and  agitated  by  the  living  images  which  the  poet 
flung  out  of  his  mind,  and  which  peopled  all  the  air 
about  the  cottage  door  with  shapes  of  beauty,  both 
gay  and  pensive.  The  sympathies  of  these  two  men 
instructed  them  with  a profounder  sense  than  either 
could  have  attained  alone.  Their  minds  accorded 
into  one  strain,  and  made  delightful  music  which 
neither  of  them  could  have  claimed  as  all  his  own, 
nor  distinguished  his  own  share  from  the  other’s. 
They  led  one  another,  as  it  were,  into  a high  pa- 
vilion of  their  thoughts,  so  remote,  and  hitherto  so 
dim,  that  they  had  never  entered  it  before,  and  so 
beautiful  that  they  desired  to  be  there  always. 

As  Ernest  listened  to  the  poet,  he  imagined  that 
the  Great  Stone  Face  was  bending  forward  to 
listen  too.  He  gazed  earnestly  into  the  poet’s  glow- 
ing eyes. 

“Who  are  you,  my  strangely  gifted  guest?”  he 
said. 

The  poet  laid  his  finger  on  the  volume  that  Er- 
nest had  been  reading. 

“You  have  read  these  poems,”  said  he.  “You 
know  me,  then — for  I wrote  them.” 

Again,  and  still  more  earnestly  than  before,  Er- 
nest examined  the  poet’s  features ; then  turned 
toward  the  Great  Stone  Face;  then  back,  with  an 
uncertain  aspect,  to  his  guest.  But  his  countenance 
fell;  he  shook  his  head,  and  sighed. 

“Wherefore  are  you  sad?”  inquired  the  poet. 


50 


HAWTHORNE 


“Because,”  replied  Ernest,  “all  through  life  I have 
awaited  the  fulfillment  of  a prophecy;  and  when  I 
read  these  poems  I hoped  that  it  might  be  fulfilled 
in  you.” 

“You  hoped,”  answered  the  poet,  faintly  smiling, 
“to  find  in  me  the  likeness  of  the  Great  Stone 
Face.  And  you  are  disappointed,  as  formerly  with 
Mr.  Gathergold,  and  Old  Blood-and-Thunder,  and 
Old  Stony  Phiz.  Yes,  Ernest,  it  is  my  doom.  Yi, . . 
must  add  my  name  to  the  illustrious  three,  and 
record  another  failure  of  your  hopes.  For — in  shame 
and  sadness  do  I speak  it,  Ernest — I am  not  worthy 
to  be  typified  by  yonder  benign  and  majestic  image.” 

“And  why?”  asked  Ernest.  He  pointed  to  the 
volume.  “Are  not  those  thoughts  divine?” 

“They  have  a strain  of  the  Divinity,”  replied  the 
poet.  “You  can  hear  in  them  the  far-off  echo  of 
a heavenly  song.  But  my  life,  dear  Ernest,  has  not 
corresponded  with  my  thought.  I have  had  grand 
dreams,  but  they  have  been  only  dreams,  because  I 
have  lived — and  that,  too,  by  my  own  choice — among 
poor  and  mean  realities.  Sometimes  even — shall  I 
dare  to  say  it? — I lack  faith  in  the  grandeur,  the 
beauty,  and  the  goodness  which  my  own  works  are 
said  to  have  made  more  evident  in  nature  and  in 
human  life.  Why,  then,  pure  seeker  of  the  good 
and  true,  shouldst  thou  hope  to  find  me  in  yonder 
image  of  the  divine?”  The  poet  spoke  sadly,  and 
his  eyes  were  dim  with  tears.  So,  likewise,  were 
those  of  Ernest. 

At  the  hour  of  sunset,  as  had  long  been  his  fre- 
quent custom,  Ernest  was  to  discourse  to  an  as- 


THE  GREAT  STONE  FACE 


51 


semblage  of  the  neighboring  inhabitants  in  the  open 
air.  He  and  the  poet,  arm  in  arm,  still  talking 
together  as  they  went  along,  proceeded  to  the  spot. 
It  was  a small  nook  among  the  hills,  with  a gray 
precipice  behind,  the  stern  front  of  which  was  re- 
lieved by  the  pleasant  foliage  of  many  creeping 
plants  that  made  a tapestry  for  the  naked  rock  by 
hanging  their  festoons  from  all  its  rugged  angles.  At 
a small  elevation  above  the  ground,  set  in  a rich 
framework  of  verdure,  there  appeared  a niche,  spa- 
cious enough  to  admit  a human  figure,  with  freedom 
for  such  gestures  as  spontaneously  accompany  ear- 
nest thought  and  genuine  emotion.  Into  this  natural 
pulpit  Ernest  ascended,  and  threw  a look  of  familiar 
kindness  around  upon  his  audience.  They  stood  or 
sat,  or  reclined  upon  the  grass,  as  seemed  good  to 
each,  with  the  departing  sunshine  falling  obliquely 
over  them,  and  mingling  its  subdued  cheerfulness 
with  the  solemnity  of  a grove  of  ancient  trees,  be- 
neath and  amid  the  boughs  of  which  the  golden  rays 
were  constrained  to  pass.  In  another  direction  was 
seen  the  Great  Stone  Face,  with  the  same  cheer, 
combined  with  the  same  solemnity,  in  its  benignant 
aspect. 

Ernest  began  to  speak,  giving  to  the  people  of 
what  was  in  his  heart  and  mind.  His  words  had 
power,  because  they  accorded  with  his  thoughts ; 
and  his  thoughts  had  reality  and  depth,  because  they 
harmonized  with  the  life  which  he  had  always  lived. 
It  was  not  mere  breath  that  this  preacher  uttered; 
they  were  the  words  of  life,  because  a life  of  good 
deeds  and  holy  love  was  melted  into  them.  Pearls, 


HAWTHORNE 


pure  and  rich,  had  been  dissolved  into  this  precious 
draught.  The  poet,  as  he  listened,  felt  that  the 
being  and  character  of  Ernest  were  a nobler  strain 
of  poetry  than  he  had  ever  written.  His  eyes 
glistening  with  tears,  he  gazed  reverentially  at  the 
venerable  man,  and  said  within  himself  that  never 
was  there  an  aspect  so  worthy  of  a prophet  and  a 
sage  as  that  mild,  sweet,  thoughtful  countenance, 
with  the  glory  of  white  hair  diffused  about  it.  At 
a distance,  but  distinctly  to  be  seen,  high  up  in  the 
golden  light  of  the  setting  sun,  appeared  the  Great 
Stone  Face,  with  hoary  mists  around  it,  like  the 
white  hairs  around  the  brow  of  Ernest.  Its  look  of 
grand  beneficence  seemed  to  embrace  the  world. 

At  that  moment,  in  sympathy  with  a thought 
which  he  was  about  to  utter,  the  face  of  Ernest  as- 
sumed a grandeur  of  expression,  so  imbued  with 
benevolence,  that  the  poet,  by  an  irresistible  impulse, 
threw  his  arms  aloft,  and  shouted: 

“Behold!  Behold!  Ernest  is  himself  the  likeness 
of  the  Great  Stone  Face!,, 

Then  all  the  people  looked,  and  saw  that  what 
the  deep-sighted  poet  said  was  true.  The  prophecy 
was  fufilled.  But  Ernest,  having  finished  what  he 
had  to  say,  took  the  poet's  arm,  and  walked  slowly 
homeward,  still  hoping  that  some  wiser  and  better 
man  than  himself  would  by  and  by  appear  bearing 
a resemblance  to  the  Great  Stone  Face. 


HOWE’S  MASQUERADE 


ft* 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE 

One  afternoon  last  summer,  while  walking  along 
Washington  Street,  my  eye  was  attraeted  by  a sign- 
board protruding  over  a narrow  archway,  nearly 
opposite  the  Old  South  Church.  The  sign  repre- 
sented the  front  of  a stately  edifice,  which  was  desig- 
nated as  the  “Old  Province  House,  kept  by  Thomas 
Waite.”  I was  glad  to  be#thus  reminded  of  a pur- 
pose, long  entertained,  of  visiting  and  rambling  over 
the  mansion  of  the  old  royal  governors  of  Massa- 
chusetts; and  entering  the  arched  passage,  which 
penetrated  through  the  middle  of  a brick  row  of 
shops,  a few  steps  transported  me  from  the  busy 
heart  of  modern  Boston  into  a small  and  secluded 
courtyard.  One  side  of  this  space  was  occupied  by 
the  square  front  of  the  Province  House,  three  stories 
high,  and  surmounted  by  a cupola,  on  the  top  of 
which  a gilded  Indian  was  discernible,  with  his  bow 
bent  and  his  arrow  on  the  string,  as  if  aiming  at  the 
weather-cock  on  the  spire  of  the  Old  South.  The 
figure  has  kept  this  attitude  for  seventy  years  or 
more,  ever  since  good  Deacon  Drowne,  a cunning 
carver  of  wood,  first  stationed  him  on  his  long  sen- 
tinel’s watch  over  the  city. 

The  Province  House  is  constructed  of  brick,  which 
seems  recently  to  have  been  overlaid  with  a coat  of 
light-colored  paint.  A flight  of  red  freestone  steps, 
fenced  in  by  a balustrade  of  curiously  wrought  iron, 
ascends  from  the  courtyard  to  the  spacious  porch. 


54 


HAWTHORNE 


over  which  is  a balcony,  with  an  iron  balustrade 
of  similar  pattern  and  workmanship  to  that  beneath. 
These  letters  and  figures — 16  P.  S.  79 — are  wrought 
into  the  ironwork  of  the  balcony,  and  probably  ex- 
press the  date  of  the  edifice,  with  the  initials  of  its 
founder’s  name.  A wide  door  with  double  leaves 
admitted  me  into  the  hall  or  entry,  on  the  right  of 
which  is  the  entrance  to  the  barroom. 

It  was  in  this  apartment,  I presume,  that  the 
ancient  governors  held  their  levees,  with  vice-regal 
pomp,  surrounded  by  the  military  men,  the  council- 
ors, the  judges,  and  other  officers  of  the  crown, 
while  all  the  loyalty  of  the  province  thronged  to  do 
them  honor.  But  the  room,  in  its  present  condition, 
cannot  boast  even  of  faded  magnificence.  The  pan- 
eled wainscot  is  covered  with  dingy  paint,  and  ac- 
quires a duskier  hue  from  the  deep  shadow  into 
which  the  Province  House  is  thrown  by  the  brick 
block  that  shuts  it  in  from  Washington  Street.  A 
ray  of  sunshine  never  visits  this  apartment  any  more 
than  the  glare  of  the  festal  torches  which  have  been 
extinguished  from  the  era  of  the  Revolution.  The 
most  venerable  and  ornamental  object  is  a chimney- 
piece  set  round  with  Dutch  tiles  of  blue-figured 
china,  representing  scenes  from  Scripture;  and,  for 
aught  I know,  the  lady  of  Pownall  or  Bernard  may 
have  sat  beside  the  fireplace,  and  told  her  children 
the  story  of  each  blue  tile.  A bar  in  modern  style, 
well  replenished  with  decanters,  bottles,  cigar-boxes, 
and  network  bags  of  lemons,  and  provided  with  a 
beer-pump  and  a soda-fount,  extends  along  one  side 
of  the  room.  At  my  entrance,  an  elderly  person 


HOWE’S  MASQUERADE 


55 


was  smacking  his  lips  with  a zest  which  satisfied 
me  that  the  cellars  of  the  Province  House  still  hold 
good  liquor,  though  doubtless  of  other  vintages  than 
were  quaffed  by  the  old  governors.  After  sipping  a 
glass  of  port  sangaree,  prepared  by  the  skillful  hands 
of  Mr.  Thomas  Waite,  I besought  that  worthy  suc- 
cessor and  representative  of  so  many  historic  per- 
sonages to  conduct  me  over  their  time-honored  man- 
sion. 

He  readily  complied;  but,  to  confess  the  truth,  I 
was  forced  to  draw  strenuously  upon  my  imagina- 
tion, in  order  to  find  aught  that  was  interesting  in 
a house  which,  without  its  historic  associations,  would 
have  seemed  merely  such  a tavern  as  is  usually 
favored  by  the  custom  of  decent  city  boarders  and 
old-fashioned  country  gentlemen.  The  chambers, 
which  were  probably  spacious  in  former  times,  are 
now  cut  up  by  partitions,  and  subdivided  into  little 
nooks,  each  affording  scanty  room  for  the  narrow 
bed  and  chair  and  dressing-table  of  a single  lodger. 
The  great  staircase,  however,  may  be  termed,  without 
much  hyperbole,  a feature  of  grandeur  and  magnifi- 
cence. It  winds  through  the  midst  of  the  house  by 
flights  of  broad  steps,  each  flight  terminating  in  a 
square  landing-place,  whence  the  ascent  is  continued 
toward  the  cupola.  A carved  balustrade,  freshly 
painted  in  the  lower  stories,  but  growing  dingier  as 
we  ascend,  borders  the  staircase  with  its  quaintly 
twisted  and  intertwined  pillars,  from  top  to  bottom. 
Up  these  stairs  the  military  boots,  or  perchance  the 
gouty  shoes,  of  many  a governor  have  trodden,  as 
the  wearers  mounted  to  the  cupola,  which  afforded 


56 


HAWTHORNE 


them  so  wide  a view  over  their  metropolis  and  the 
surrounding  country.  The  cupola  is  an  octagon,  with 
several  windows,  and  a door  opening  upon  the  roof. 
From  this  station,  as  I pleased  myself  with  imagining, 
Gage  may  have  beheld  his  disastrous  victory  on 
Bunker  Hill  (unless  one  of  the  tri-mountains  inter- 
vened), and  Howe  have  marked  the  approaches  of 
Washington’s  besieging  army;  although  the  buildings, 
since  erected  in  the  vicinity,  have  shut  out  almost 
every  object,  save  the  steeple  of  the  Old  South, 
which  seems  almost  within  arm’s  length.  Descending 
from  the  cupola,  I paused  in  the  garret  to  observe 
the  ponderous  white-oak  framework,  so  much  more 
massive  than  the  frames  of  modern  houses,  and 
thereby  resembling  an  antique  skeleton.  The  brick 
walls,  the  materials  of  which  were  imported  from 
Holland,  and  the  timbers  of  the  mansion,  are  still 
as  sound  as  ever;  but  the  floors  and  other  interior 
parts  being  greatly  decayed,  it  is  contemplated  to  gut 
the  whole,  and  build  a new  house  within  the  ancient 
frame  and  brickwork.  Among  other  inconveniences 
of  the  present  edifice,  mine  host  mentioned  that  any 
jar  or  motion  was  apt  to  shake  down  the  dust  of 
ages  out  of  the  ceiling  of  one  chamber  upon  the 
floor  of  that  beneath  it. 

We  stepped  forth  from  the  great  front  window 
into  the  balcony,  where,  in  old  times,  it  was  doubtless 
the  custom  of  the  king’s  representative  to  show  him- 
self to  a loyal  populace,  requiting  their  huzzas  and 
tossed-up  hats  with  stately  bendings  of  his  dignified 
person  In  those  days,  the  front  of  the  Province 
House  looked  upon  the  street;  and  the  whole  site 


HOWE’S  MASQUERADE 


57 


now  occupied  by  the  brick  range  of  stores,  as  well 
as  the  present  courtyard,  was  laid  out  in  grass-plats, 
overshadowed  by  trees  and  bordered  by  a wrought- 
iron  fence.  Now,  the  old  aristocratic  edifice  hides  its 
time-worn  visage  behind  an  upstart  modern  building; 
at  one  of  the  back  windows  I observed  some  pretty 
tailoresses,  sewing  and  chatting  and  laughing,  with 
now  and  then  a careless  glance  toward  the  balcony. 
Descending  thence,  we  again  entered  the  barroom, 
where  the  elderly  gentleman  above  mentioned,  the 
smack  of  whose  lips  had  spoken  so  favorably  for 
Mr.  Waite’s  good  liquor,  was  still  lounging  in  his 
chair.  He  seemed  to  be,  if  not  a lodger,  at  least  a 
familiar  visitor  of  the  house,  who  might  be  supposed 
to  have  his  regular  score  at  the  bar,  his  summer  seat 
at  the  open  window,  and  his  prescriptive  corner  at 
the  winter’s  fireside.  Being  of  a sociable  aspect,  I 
ventured  to  address  him  with  a remark,  calculated 
to  draw  forth  his  historical  reminiscences,  if  any 
such  were  in  his  mind;  and  it  gratified  me  to  dis- 
cover that,  between  memory  and  tradition,  the  old 
gentleman  was  really  possessed  of  some  very  pleasant 
gossip  about  the  Province  House.  The  portion  of 
his  talk  which  chiefly  interested  me  was  the  outline 
of  the  following  legend.  He  professed  to  have  re- 
ceived it  at  one  or  two  removes  from  an  eye-wit- 
ness; but  this  derivation,  together  with  the  lapse  of 
time,  must  have  afforded  opportunities  for  many  va- 
riations of  the  narrative;  so  that  despairing  of  literal 
and  absolute  truth,  I have  not  scrupled  to  make  such 
further  changes  as  seemed  conducive  to  the  reader’s 
profit  and  delight. 


58 


HAWTHORNE 


At  one  of  the  entertainments  given  at  the  Prov- 
ince House  during  the  latter  part  of  the  siege  of 
Boston,  there  passed  a scene  which  has  never  yet 
been  satisfactorily  explained.  The  officers  of  the 
British  army,  and  the  loyal  gentry  of  the  province, 
most  of  whom  were  collected  within  the  beleaguered 
town,  had  been  invited  to  a masked  ball;  for  it  was 
the  policy  of  Sir  William  Howe  to  hide  the  distress 
and  danger  of  the  period,  and  the  desperate  aspect  of 
the  siege,  under  an  ostentation  of  festivity.  The 
spectacle  of  this  evening,  if  the  oldest  members  of 
the  provincial  court  circle  might  be  believed,  was 
the  most  gay  and  gorgeous  affair  that  had  occurred 
in  the  annals  of  the  government.  The  brilliantly 
lighted  apartments  were  thronged  with  figures  that 
seemed  to  have  stepped  from  the  dark  canvas  of 
historic  portraits,  or  to  have  flitted  forth  from  the 
magic  pages  of  romance,  or  at  least  to  have  flown 
hither  from  one  of  the  London  theaters,  without  a 
change  of  garments.  Steeled  knights  of  the  Con- 
quest, bearded  statesmen  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and 
high-ruffled  ladies  of  her  court  were  mingled  with 
characters  of  comedy,  such  as  a party-colored  Merry 
Andrew,  jingling  his  cap  and  bells;  a Falstaff,  almost 
as  provocative  of  laughter  as  his  prototype,  and  a 
Don  Quixote,  with  a bean-pole  for  a lance  and  a 
potlid  for  a shield. 

But  the  broadest  merriment  was  excited  by  a group 
of  figures  ridiculously  dressed  in  old  regimentals, 
which  seemed  to  have  been  purchased  at  a military 
rag-fair,  or  pilfered  from  some  receptacle  of  the 
cast-off  clothes  of  both  the  French  and  British  armies. 


HOWE’S  MASQUERADE 


59 


Portions  of  their  attire  had  probably  been  worn  at 
the  siege  of  Louisburg,  and  the  coats  of  most  recent 
cut  might  have  been  rent  and  tattered  by  sword,  ball, 
or  bayonet,  as  long  ago  as  Wolfe’s  victory.  One  of 
these  worthies — a tall,  lank  figure,  brandishing  a 
rusty  sword  of  immense  longitude — purported  to  be 
no  less  a personage  than  General  George  Washing- 
ton; and  the  other  principal  officers  of  the  American 
army,  such  as  Gates,  Lee,  Putnam,  Schuyler,  Ward, 
and  Heath,  were  represented  by  similar  scarecrows. 
An  interview  in  the  mock-heroic  style  between  the 
rebel  warriors  and  the  British  commander-in-chief 
was  received  with  immense  applause,  which  came 
loudest  of  all  from  the  loyalists  of  the  colony.  There 
was  one  of  the  guests,  however,  who  stood  apart, 
eyeing  these  antics  sternly  and  scornfully,  at  once 
with  a frown  and  a bitter  smile. 

It  was  an  old  man,  formerly  of  high  station  and 
great  repute  in  the  province,  and  who  had  been  a 
very  famous  soldier  in  his  day.  Some  surprise  had 
been  expressed  that  a person  of  Colonel  Joliffe’s 
known  whig  principles,  though  now  too  old  to  take 
an  active  part  in  the  contest,  should  have  remained 
in  Boston  during  the  siege,  and  especially  that  he 
should  consent  to  show  himself  in  the  mansion  of 
Sir  William  Howe.  But  thither  he  had  come,  with 
a fair  granddaughter  under  his  arm ; and  there,  amid 
all  the  mirth  and  buffoonery,  stood  this  stern  old 
figure,  the  best  sustained  character  in  the  mas- 
querade, because  so  well  representing  the  antique 
spirit  of  his  native  land.  The  other  guests  affirmed 
that  Colonel  Joliffe’s  black  puritanical  scowl  threw 


60 


HAWTHORNE 


a shadow  round  about  him;  although  in  spite  of  his 
somber  influence  their  gayety  continued  to  blaze 
higher,  like  (an  ominous  comparison)  the  flickering 
brilliancy  of  a lamp  which  has  but  a little  while  to 
burn.  Eleven  strokes,  full  half  an  hour  ago,  had 
pealed  from  the  clock  of  the  Old  South,  when  a 
rumor  was  circulated  among  the  company  that  some 
new  spectacle  or  pageant  was  about  to  be  exhibited, 
which  should  put  a fitting  close  to  the  splendid  fes- 
tivities of  the  night. 

“What  new  jest  has  your  Excellency  in  hand?” 
asked  the  Rev.  Mather  Byles,  whose  Presbyterian 
scruples  had  not  kept  him  from  the  entertainment. 
“Trust  me,  sir,  I have  already  laughed  more  than 
beseems  my  cloth,  at  your  Homeric  confabulation 
with  yonder  ragamuffin  general  of  the  rebels.  One 
other  such  fit  of  merriment  and  I must  throw  off  my 
clerical  wig  and  band.” 

“Not  so,  good  Dr.  Byles,”  answered  Sir  William 
Howe ; “if  mirth  were  a crime,  you  had  never  gained 
your  doctorate  in  divinity.  As  to  this  new  foolery, 
I know  no  more  about  it  than  yourself;  perhaps  not 
so  much.  Honestly  now,  Doctor,  have  you  not 
stirred  up  the  sober  brains  of  some  of  your  country- 
men to  enact  a scene  in  our  masquerade?” 

“Perhaps,”  slyly  remarked  the  granddaughter  of 
Colonel  Joliffe,  whose  high  spirit  had  been  stung  by 
many  taunts  against  New  England — “perhaps  we  are 
to  have  a mask  of  allegorical  figures.  Victory,  with 
trophies  from  Lexington  and  Bunker  Hill;  Plenty, 
with  her  overflowing  horn,  to  typify  the  present 


HOWE’S  MASQUERADE  61 

abundance  in  this  good  town;  and  Glory,  with  a 
wreath  for  his  Excellency’s  brow.” 

Sir  William  Howe  smiled  at  words  which  he 
would  have  answered  with  one  of  his  darkest  frowns 
had  they  been  uttered  by  lips  that  wore  a beard.  He 
was  spared  the  necessity  of  a retort  by  a singular 
interruption.  A sound  of  music  was  heard  without 
the  house,  as  if  proceeding  from  a full  band  of 
military  instruments  stationed  in  the  street,  play- 
ing, not  such  a festal  strain  as  was  suited  to  the 
occasion,  but  a slow  funeral  march.  The  drums  ap- 
peared to  be  muffled,  and  the  trumpets  poured  forth 
a wailing  breath,  which  at  once  hushed  the  merriment 
of  the  auditors,  filling  all  with  wonder  and  some  with 
apprehension.  The  idea  occurred  to  many  that  either 
the  funeral  procession  of  some  great  personage  had 
halted  in  front  of  the  Province  House,  or  that  a 
corpse,  in  a velvet-covered  and  gorgeously  decorated 
coffin,  was  about  to  be  borne  from  the  portal.  After 
listening  a moment,  Sir  William  Howe  called,  in  a 
stern  voice,  to  the  leader  of  the  musicians,  who  had 
hitherto  enlivened  the  entertainment  with  gay  and 
lightsome  melodies.  The  man  was  drum-major  to 
one  of  the  British  regiments. 

“Dighton,”  demanded  the  general,  “what  means 
this  foolery?  Bid  your  band  silence  that  dead 
march,  or,  by  my  word,  they  shall  have  sufficient 
cause  for  their  lugubrious  strains ! Silence  it,  sirrah !” 

“Please,  your  Honor,”  answered  the  drum-major, 
whose  rubicund  visage  had  lost  all  its  color,  “the 
fault  is  none  of  mine.  I and  my  band  are  all  here 
together,  and  I question  whether  there  be  a man 


62 


HAWTHORNE 


of  us  that  could  play  that  march  without  book.  I 
never  heard  it  but  once  before,  and  that  was  at  the 
funeral  of  his  late  Majesty,  King  George  the  Sec- 
ond/’ 

“Well,  well!”  said  Sir  William  Howe,  recovering 
his  composure ; “it  is  the  prelude  to  some  mas- 
querading antic.  Let  it  pass.” 

A figure  now  presented  itself,  but  among  the  many 
fantastic  masks  that  were  uispersed  through  the 
apartments  none  could  tell  precisely  from  whence  it 
came.  It  was  a man  in  an  old-fashioned  dress  of 
black  serge,  and  having  the  aspect  of  a steward  or 
principal  domestic  in  the  household  of  a nobleman 
or  great  English  landholder.  This  figure  advanced 
to  the  outer  door  of  the  mansion,  and  throwing  both 
its  leaves  wide  open,  withdrew  a little  to  one  side 
and  looked  back  toward  the  grand  staircase,  as  if 
expecting  some  person  to  descend.  At  the  same  time, 
the  music  in  the  street  sounded  a loud  and  doleful 
summons.  The  eyes  of  Sir  William  Howe  and  his 
guests  being  directed  to  the  staircase,  there  appeared, 
on  the  uppermost  landing-place  that  was  discernible 
from  the  bottom,  several  personages  descending 
toward  the  door.  The  foremost  was  a man  of  stern 
visage,  wearing  a steeple-crowned  hat  and  a skull- 
cap beneath  it ; a dark  cloak,  and  huge  wrinkled  boots 
that  came  half-way  up  his  legs.  Under  his  arm  was 
a rolled-up  banner,  which  seemed  to  be  the  banner 
of  England,  but  strangely  rent  and  torn;  he  had  a 
sword  in  his  right  hand,  and  grasped  a Bible  in  his 
left.  The  next  figure  was  of  milder  aspect,  yet  full 
of  dignity,  wearing  a broad  ruff,  over  which  descend- 


HOWE’S  MASQUERADE 


63 


ed  a beard,  a gown  of  wrought  velvet,  and  a doublet 
and  hose  of  black  satin.  He  carried  a roll  of  manu- 
script in  his  hand.  Close  behind  these  two  came  a 
young  man  of  very  striking  countenance  and  de- 
meanor, with  deep  thought  and  contemplation  on  his 
brow,  and  perhaps  a flash  of  enthusiasm  in  his  eye. 
His  garb,  like  that  of  his  predecessors,  was  of  an 
antique  fashion,  and  there  was  a stain  of  blood  upon 
his  ruff.  In  the  same  group  with  these  were  three 
or  four  others,  all  men  of  dignity  and  evident  com- 
mand, and  bearing  themselves  like  personages  who 
were  accustomed  to  the  gaze  of  the  multitude.  It 
was  the  idea  of  the  beholders  that  these  figures  went 
to  join  the  mysterious  funeral  that  had  halted  in 
front  of  the  Province  House;  yet  that  supposition 
seemed  to  be  contradicted  by  the  air  of  triumph 
with  which  they  waved  their  hands  as  they  crossed 
the  threshold  and  vanished  through  the  portal. 

“In  the  Devil’s  name,  what  is  this?”  muttered  Sir 
William  Howe  to  a gentleman  beside  him;  “a  pro- 
cession of  the  regicide  judges  of  King  Charles  the 
martyr  ?” 

“These,”  said  Colonel  Joliffe,  breaking  silence  al- 
most for  the  first  time  that  evening — “these,  if  I 
interpret  them  aright,  are  the  Puritan  governors — 
the  rulers  of  the  old,  original  democracy  of  Massa- 
chusetts. Endicott,  with  the  banner  from  which  he 
had  torn  the  S3unbol  of  subjection,  and  Winthrop, 
and  Sir  Henry  Vane,  and  Dudley,  Haynes,  Belling- 
ham, and  Leverett.” 

“Why  had  that  young  man  a stain  of  blood  upon 
his  ruff?”  asked  Miss  Joliffe. 


84 


HAWTHORNE 


“Because  in  after  years/’  answered  her  grandfather, 
“he  laid  down  the  wisest  head  in  England  upon  the 
block  for  the  principles  of  liberty.” 

“Will  not  your  Excellency  order  out  the  guard?” 
whispered  Lord  Percy,  who,  with  other  British  offi- 
cers, had  now  assembled  round  the  general.  “There 
may  be  a plot  under  this  mummery.” 

“Tush ! we  have  nothing  to  fear,”  carelessly  replied 
Sir  William  Howe.  “There  can  be  no  worse  treason 
in  the  matter  than  a jest,  and  that  somewhat  of  the 
dullest.  Even  were  it  a sharp  and  bitter  one,  our 
best  policy  would  be  to  laugh  it  off.  See,  here  come 
more  of  these  gentry.” 

Another  group  of  characters  had  now  partly  de- 
scended the  staircase.  The  first  was  a venerable  and 
white-bearded  patriarch,  who  cautiously  felt  his  way 
downward  with  a staff.  Treading  hastily  behind 
him,  and  stretching  forth  his  gauntleted  hand  as  if  to 
grasp  the  old  man’s  shoulder,  came  a tall,  soldier- 
like figure,  equipped  with  a plumed  cap  of  steel,  a 
bright  breastplate,  and  a long  sword,  which  rattled 
against  the  stairs.  Next  was  seen  a stout  man, 
dressed  in  rich  and  courtly  attire,  but  not  of  courtly 
demeanor;  his  gait  had  the  swinging  motion  of  a 
seaman’s  walk;  and  chancing  to  stumble  on  the  stair- 
case, he  suddenly  grew  wrathful,  and  was  heard  to 
mutter  an  oath.  He  was  followed  by  a noble-looking 
personage  in  a curled  wig,  such  as  are  represented 
in  the  portraits  of  Queen  Anne’s  time  and  earlier; 
and  the  breast  of  his  coa/  was  decorated  with  an 
embroidered  star.  While  advancing  to  the  door  he 
bowed  to  the  right  hand  and  to  the  left,  in  a very 


65 


HOWE’S  MASQUERADE 

gracious  and  insinuating  style;  but  as  he  crossed 
the  threshold,  unlike  the  early  Puritan  governors,  he 
seemed  to  wring  his  hands  with  sorrow, 

“Prithee,  play  the  part  of  a chorus,  good  Dr. 
Byles,”  said  Sir  William  Howe.  “What  worthies  are 
these  ?” 

“If  it  please  your  Excellency,  they  lived  somewhat 
before  my  day,”  answered  the  Doctor ; “but  doubtless 
our  friend,  the  Colonel,  has  been  hand  in  glove  with 
them.” 

“Their  living  faces  I never  looked  upon,”  said 
Colonel  Joliffe,  gravely;  “although  I have  spoken 
face  to  face  with  many  rulers  of  this  land,  and  shall 
greet  yet  another  with  an  old  man’s  blessing  ere  I 
die.  But  we  talk  of  these  figures.  I take  the  ven- 
erable patriarch  to  be  Bradstreet,  the  last  of  the 
Puritans,  who  was  governor  at  ninety,  or  there- 
abouts. The  next  is  Sir  Edmund  Andros,  a tyrant, 
as  any  New  England  schoolboy  will  tell  you;  and 
therefore  the  people  cast  him  down  from  his  high 
seat  into  a dungeon.  Then  comes  Sir  William 
Phipps,  shepherd,  cooper,  sea-captain,  and  governor; 
may  many  of  his  countrymen  rise  as  high  from  as 
low  an  origin!  Lastly,  you  saw  the  gracious  Ekrl 
of  Bellamont,  who  ruled  us  under  King  William.” 

“But  what  is  the  meaning  of  it  all?”  asked  Lord 
Percy. 

“Now,  were  I a rebel,”  said  Miss  Joliffe,  half 
aloud,  “I  might  fancy  that  the  ghosts  of  these  an- 
cient governors  had  been  summoned  to  form  the 
funeral  procession  of  royal  authority  in  New  Eng- 


66 


HAWTHORNE 


Several  other  figures  were  now  seen  at  the  turn 
of  the  staircase.  The  one  in  advance  had  a thought- 
ful, anxious,  and  somewhat  crafty  expression  of 
face;  and  in  spite  of  his  loftiness  of  manner,  which 
was  evidently  the  result  both  of  an  ambitious  spirit 
and  of  long  continuance  in  high  stations,  he  seemed 
not  incapable  of  cringing  to  a greater  than  himself. 
A few  steps  behind  came  an  officer  in  a scarlet  and 
embroidered  uniform,  cut  in  a fashion  old  enough 
to  have  been  worn  by  the  Duke  of  Marlborough.  His 
nose  had  a rubicund  tinge,  which,  together  with  the 
twinkle  of  his  eye,  might  have  marked  him  as  a lover 
of  the  wine-cup  and  good  fellowship;  notwithstand- 
ing which  tokens,  he  appeared  ill  at  ease,  and  often 
glanced  around  him,  as  if  apprehensive  of  some 
secret  mischief.  Next  came  a portly  gentleman, 
wearing  a coat  of  shaggy  cloth,  lined  with  silken 
velvet;  he  had  sense,  shrewdness,  and  humor  in  his 
face,  and  a folio  volume  under  his  arm;  but  his 
aspect  was  that  of  a man  vexed  and  tormented  be- 
yond all  patience  and  harassed  almost  to  death.  He 
went  hastily  down,  and  was  followed  by  a dignified 
person,  dressed  in  a purple  velvet  suit,  with  very 
rich  embroidery;  his  demeanor  would  have  possessed 
much  stateliness,  only  that  a grievous  fit  of  the  gout 
compelled  him  to  hobble  from  stair  to  stair,  with 
contortions  of  face  and  body.  When  Dr.  Byles  be- 
held this  figure  on  the  staircase,  he  shivered  as  with 
an  ague,  but  continued  to  watch  him  steadfastly, 
until  the  gouty  gentleman  had  reached  the  threshold, 
made  a gesture  of  anguish  and  despair,  and  vanished 


HOWE’S  MASQUERADE  67 

into  the  outer  gloom,  whither  the  funeral  music 
summoned  him. 

“Governor  Belcher! — my  old  patron! — in  his  very 
shape  and  dress  !”  gasped  Dr.  Byles.  “This  is  an 
awful  mockery!” 

“A  tedious  foolery,  rather,”  said  Sir  William 
Howe,  with  an  air  of  indifference.  “But  who  were 
the  three  that  preceded  him?” 

“Governor  Dudley,  a cunning  politician — yet  his 
craft  once  brought  him  to  a prison,”  replied  Colonel 
Joliffe;  “Governor  Shute,  formerly  a colonel  under 
Marlborough,  and  whom  the  people  frightened  out 
of  the  province ; and  learned  Governor  Burnet, 
whom  the  Legislature  tormented  into  a mortal 
fever.5 

“Methinks  they  were  miserable  men,  these  royal 
governors  of  Massachusetts,”  observed  Miss  Joliffe. 
“Heavens,  how  dim  the  light  grows !” 

It  was  certainly  a fact  that  the  large  lamp  which 
illuminated  the  staircase  now  burned  dim  and 
duskily;  so  that  several  figures,  which  passed  hastily 
down  the  stairs  and  went  forth  from  the  porch,,  ap- 
peared rather  like  shadows  than  persons  of  fleshly 
substance.  Sir  William  Howe  and  his  guests  stood 
at  the  doors  of  the  contiguous  apartments,  watching 
the  progress  of  this  singular  pageant,  with  various 
emotions  of  anger,  contempt,  or  half-acknowledged 
fear,  but  still  with  an  anxious  curiosity.  The  shapes 
which  now  seemed  hastening  to  join  the  mysterious 
procession  were  recognized  rather  by  striking  pecu- 
liarities of  dress  or  broad  characteristics  of  manner 
than  by  any  perceptible  resemblance  of  features  to 


68 


HAWTHORNE 


their  prototypes.  Their  faces,  indeed,  were  inva- 
riably kept  in  deep  shadow.  But  Dr.  Byles,  and 
other  gentlemen  who  had  long  been  familiar  with 
the  successive  rulers  of  the  province,  were  heard  to 
whisper  the  names  of  Shirley,  of  Pownall,  of  Sir 
Francis  Bernard,  and  of  the  well-remembered  Hutch- 
inson, thereby  confessing  that  the  actors,  whoever 
they  might  be,  in  this  spectral  march  of  governors, 
had  succeeded  in  putting  on  some  distant  portraiture 
of  the  real  personages.  As  they  vanished  from  the 
door,  still  did  these  shadows  toss  their  arms  into 
the  gloom  of  night,  with  a dread  expression  of  woe. 
Following  the  mimic  representation  of  Hutchinson 
came  a military  figure,  holding  before  his  face  the 
cocked  hat  which  he  had  taken  from  his  powdered 
head;  but  his  epaulets  and  other  insignia  of  rank 
were  those  of  a general  officer;  and  something  in 
his  mien  reminded  the  beholders  of  one  who  had 
recently  been  master  of  the  Province  House,  and 
chief  or  all  the  land. 

“The  shape  of  Gage,  as  true  as  in  a looking- 
glass  l ” exclaimed  Lord  Percy,  turning  pale. 

“No,  surely,”  cried  Miss  Joliffe,  laughing  hys- 
terically; “it  could  not  be  Gage,  or  Sir  William 
would  have  greeted  his  old  comrade  in  arms!  Per- 
haps he  will  not  suffer  the  next  to  pass  unchal- 
lenged.” 

“Of  that  be  assured,  young  lady,”  answered  Sir 
William  Howe,  fixing  his  eyes,  with  a very  marked 
expression,  upon  the  immovable  visage  of  her  grand- 
father. “I  have  long  enough  delayed  to  pay  the 
ceremonies  of  a host  to  these  departing  guests.  The 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE  69 

next  that  takes  his  leave  shall  receive  due  cour- 
tesy” 

A wild  and  dreary  burst  of  music  came  through 
the  open  door.  It  seemed  as  if  the  procession,  which 
had  been  gradually  filling  up  its  ranks,  were  now 
about  to  move,  and  that  this  loud  peal  of  the  wailing 
trumpets  and  roll  of  the  muffled  drums  were  a call 
to  some  loiterer  to  make  haste.  Many  eyes,  by  an 
irresistible  impulse,  were  turned  upon  Sir  William 
Howe,  as  if  it  were  he  whom  the  dreary  music  sum- 
moned to  the  funeral  of  departed  power. 

“See! — here  comes  the  last!”  whispered  Miss  Jol- 
iffe,  pointing  her  tremulous  finger  to  the  stai^ase. 

A figure  had  come  into  view  as  if  descending  the 
stairs,  although  so  dusky  was  the  region  whence  it 
emerged  some  of  the  spectators  fancied  that  they  had 
seen  this  human  shape  suddenly  molding  itself  amid 
the  gloom.  Downward  the  figure  came,  with  a stately 
and  martial  tread,  and  reaching  the  lowest  stair 
was  observed  to  be  a tall  man,  booted  and  wrapped 
in  a military  cloak,  which  was  drawn  up  around  the 
face  so  as  to  meet  the  flapped  brim  of  a laced  hat. 
The  features,  therefore,  were  completely  hidden. 
But  the  British  officers  deemed  that  they  had  seen 
that  military  cloak  before,  and  even  recognized  the 
frayed  embroidery  on  the  collar,  as  well  as  the  gilded 
scabbard  of  a sword  which  protruded  from  the  folds 
of  the  cloak,  and  glittered  in  a vivid  gleam  of  light. 
Apart  from  these  trifling  particulars  there  were  char- 
acteristics of  gait  and  bearing  which  impelled  the 
wondering  guests  to  glance  from  the  shrouded  fig- 
ure to  Sir  William  Howe,  as  if  tC*  satisfy  themselves 


70  HAWTHuKNE 

that  their  host  had  not  suddenly  vanished  from  the 
midst  of  them. 

With  a dark  flush  of  wrath  upon  his  brow,  they 
saw  the  general  draw  his  sword  and  advance  to  meet 
the  figure  in  the  cloak  before  the  latter  had  stepped 
one  pace  upon  the  floor. 

“Villain,  unmuffle  yourself!”  cried  he.  “You  pass 
no  farther!” 

The  figure,  without  blenching  a hair’s-breadth 
from  the  sword  which  was  pointed  at  his  breast, 
made  a solemn  pause  and  lowered  the  cape  of  the 
cloak  from  about  his  face,  yet  not  sufficiently  for 
the  spectators  to  catch  a glimpse  of  it.  But  Sir 
William  Howe  had  evidently  seen  enough.  The 
sternness  of  his  countenance  gave  place  to  a look 
of  wild  amazement,  if  not  horror,  while  he  recoiled 
several  steps  from  the  figure  and  let  fall  his  sword 
upon  the  floor.  The  martial  shape  again  drew  the 
cloak  about  his  features  and  passed  on;  but  reach- 
ing the  threshold,  with  his  back  toward  the  spec- 
tators, he  was  seen  to  stamp  his  foot  and  shake 
his  clinched  hands  in  the  air.  It  was  afterward 
affirmed  that  Sir  William  Howe  had  repeated  that 
self-same  gesture  of  rage  and  sorrow  when,  for  the 
last  time,  and  as  the  last  royal  governor,  he  passed 
through  the  portal  of  the  Province  House. 

“Hark! — the  procession  moves,”  said  Miss  Joliffe. 

The  music  was  dying  away  along  the  street,  and  its 
dismal  strains  were  mingled  with  the  knell  of  mid- 
night from  the  steeple  of  the  Old  South,  and  with 
the  roar  of  artillery,  which  announced  that  the  be- 
leaguering army  of  Washington  had  intrenched  itself 


HOWE’S  MASQUERADE  71 

upon  a nearer  height  than  before.  As  the  deep 
boom  of  the  cannon  smote  upon  his  ear,  Colonel 
Joliffe  raised  himself  to  the  full  height  of  his  aged 
form  and  smiled  sternly  on  the  British  general. 

“Would  your  Excellency  inquire  further  into  the 
mystery  of  the  pageant?”  said  he. 

“Take  care  of  your  gray  head!”  cried  Sir  Wil- 
liam Howe,  fiercely,  though  with  a quivering  lip. 
“It  has  stood  too  long  on  a traitor’s  shoulders!” 

“You  must  make  haste  to  chop  it  off,  then,”  calmly 
replied  the  Colonel ; “for  a few  hours  longer,  and  not 
all  the  power  of  Sir  William  Howe,  nor  of  his  mas- 
ter, shall  cause  one  of  these  gray  hairs  to  fall.  The 
empire  of  Britain  in  this  ancient  province  is  at  its  last 
gasp  to-night ; almost  while  I speak  it  is  a dead 
corpse,  and  methinks  the  shadows  of  the  old  gover- 
nors are  fit  mourners  at  its  funeral!” 

With  these  words  Colonel  Joliffe  threw  on  his 
cloak,  and  drawing  his  granddaughter’s  arm  within 
his  own,  retired  from  the  last  festival  that  a British 
ruler  ever  held  in  the  old  province  of  Massachusetts 
Bay.  It  was  supposed  that  the  Colonel  and  the 
young  lady  possessed  some  secret  intelligence  in  re- 
gard to  the  mysterious  pageant  of  that  night.  How- 
ever this  might  be,  such  knowledge  has  never  be- 
come general.  The  actors  in  the  scene  have  vanished 
into  deeper  obscurity  than  even  that  wild  Indian 
band  who  scattered  the  cargoes  of  the  tea-ships  on 
the  waves  and  gained  a place  in  history,  yet  left  no 
names.  But  superstition,  among  other  legends  of 
this  mansion,  repeats  the  wondrous  tale  that  on  the 
anniversary  night  of  Britain’s  discomfiture  the  ghosts 


72 


HAWTHORNE 


of  the  ancient  governors  of  Massachusetts  still  glide 
through  the  portal  of  the  Province  House.  And  last 
of  all,  comes  a figure  shrouded  in  a military  cloak, 
tossing  his  clinched  hands  into  the  air,  and  stamping 
his  iron-shod  boots  upon  the  broad  freestone  steps 
with  a semblance  of  feverish  despair,  but  without 
the  sound  of  a foot-tramp. 


When  the  truth-telling  accents  of  the  elderly  gen- 
tleman were  hushed,  I drew  a long  breath  and  looked 
round  the  room,  striving,  with  the  best  energy  of 
my  imagination,  to  throw  a tinge  of  romance  and 
historic  grandeur  over  the  realities  of  the  scene.  But 
my  nostrils  snuffed  up  a scent  of  cigar-smoke,  clouds 
of  which  the  narrator  had  emitted  by  way  of  visible 
emblem,  I suppose,  of  the  nebulous  obscurity  of  his 
tale.  Moreover,  my  gorgeous  fantasies  were  wofully 
disturbed  by  the  rattling  of  the  spoon  in  a tumbler 
of  whisky  punch,  which  Mr.  Thomas  Waite  was 
mingling  for  a customer.  Nor  did  it  add  to  the 
picturesque  appearance  of  the  paneled  walls  that  the 
slate  of  the  Brookline  stage  was  suspended  against 
them,  instead  of  the  armorial  escutcheon  of  some 
far-descended  governor.  A stage-driver  sat  at  one 
of  the  windows,  reading  a penny  paper  of  the  day — 
the  Boston  Times — and  presenting  a figure  which 
could  nowise  be  brought  into  any  picture  of  “times 
in  Boston”  seventy  or  a hundred  years  ago.  On  the 
window-seat  lay  a bundle,  neatly  done  up  in  brown 
paper,  the  direction  of  which  I had  the  idle  curi- 
osity to  read,  “Miss  Susan  Huggins,  at  the  Prov- 
ince House/*  A pretty  chambermaid,  no  doubt. 


DROWNE’S  WOODEN  IMAGE  73 


In  truth,  it  is  desperately  hard  work  when  we  at- 
tempt to  throw  the  spell  of  hoar  antiquity  over  locali- 
ties with  which  the  living  world,  and  the  day  that 
ir  passing  over  us,  have  aught  to  do.  Yet,  as  I 
glanced  at  the  stately  staircase  down  which  the  pro- 
cession of  the  old  governors  had  descended,  and  as 
I emerged  through  the  venerable  portal,  whence  their 
figures  had  preceded  me,  if  gladdened  me  to  be  con- 
scious of  a thrill  of  awe.  Then  diving  through  the 
narrow  archway,  a few  strides  transported  me  into 
tb?  densest  throng  of  Washington  Street 


DROWNE'S  WOODEN  IMAGE 


One  sunshiny  morning  in  the  good  old  times 
of  the  town  of  Boston,  a young  carver  in  wood, 
well  known  by  the  name  of  Drowne,  stood  con- 
templating a large  oaken  log,  which  it  was  his  pur- 
pose to  convert  into  the  figurehead  of  a vessel.  And 
while  he  discussed  within  his  own  mind  what  sort 
of  shape  or  similitude  it  were  well  to  bestow  upon 
this  excellent  piece  of  timber,  there  came  into 
Drowne’s  workshop  a certain  Captain  Kunnewell, 
owner  and  commander  of  the  good  brig  called  the 
Cynosure,  which  had  just  returned  from  her  first 
voyage  to  Fayal. 

“Ah!  that  will  do,  Drowne,  that  will  do!”  cried 
the  jolly  captain,  tapping  the  log  with  his  rattan. 
“I  bespeak  this  very  piece  of  oak  for  the  figurehead 
of  the  Cynosure.  She  has  shown  herself  the  sweet- 


74 


HAWTHORNE 


est  craft  that  ever  floated,  and  I mean  to  decorate  her 
prow  with  the  handsomest  image  that  the  skill  of 
man  can  cut  out  of  timber.  And,  Drowne,  you  are 
the  fellow  to  execute  it.” 

“You  give  me  more  credit  than  I deserve,  Cap- 
tain Hunnewell,”  said  the  carver,  modestly,  yet  as 
one  conscious  of  eminence  in  his  art.  “But  for  the 
sake  of  the  good  brig,  I stand  ready  to  do  my  best. 
And  which  of  these  designs  do  you  prefer?  Here,” 
— pointing  to  a staring,  half-length  figure,  in  a white 
wig  and  scarlet  coat — “here  is  an  excellent  model, 
the  likeness  of  our  gracious  king.  Here  is  the  va- 
liant Admiral  Vernon.  Or,  if  you  prefer  a female 
figure,  what  say  you  to  Britannia  with  the  trident?” 

“All  very  fine,  Drowne ; all  very  fine,”  answered 
the  mariner.  “But  as  nothing  like  the  brig  ever 
swam  the  ocean,  so  I am  determined  she  shall  have 
such  a figurehead  as  old  Neptune  never  saw  in  his 
life.  And  what  is  more,  as  there  is  a secret  in  the 
matter,  you  must  pledge  your  credit  not  to  be- 
tray it.” 

“Certainly,”  said  Drowne,  marvelling,  however, 
what  possible  mystery  there  could  be  in  reference 
to  an  affair  so  open,  of  necessity,  to  the  inspection 
of  all  the  world  as  the  figurehead  of  a vessel.  “You 
may  depend,  captain,  on  my  being  as  secret  as  the 
nature  of  the  case  will  permit.” 

Captain  Hunnewell  then  took  Drowne  by  the 
button,  and  communicated  his  wishes  in  so  low  a 
tone  that  it  would  be  unmannerly  to  repeat  what 
was  evidently  intended  for  the  carver’s  private  ear. 
We  shall,  therefore,  take  the  opportunity  to  give  the 


BROWNE’S  WOODEN  IMAGE  75 


reader  a few  desirable  particulars  about  Drowne 
himself. 

He  was  the  first  American  who  is  known  to  have 
attempted — in  a very  humble  line,  it  is  true — that  art 
in  which  we  can  now  reckon  so  many  names  already 
distinguished  or  rising  to  distinction.  From  his 
earliest  boyhood  he  had  exhibited  a knack — for  it 
would  be  too  proud  a word  to  call  it  genius — a 
knack,  therefore,  for  the  imitation  of  the  human  fig- 
ure in  whatever  material  came  most  readily  to  hand. 
The  snows  of  a New  England  winter  had  often  sup- 
plied him  with  a species  of  marble  as  dazzlingly 
white,  at  least,  as  the  Parian  or  the  Carrara,  and  if 
less  durable,  yet  sufficiently  so  to  correspond  with 
any  claims  to  permanent  existence  possessed  by  the 
boys’  frozen  statues.  Yet  they  won  admiration  from 
maturer  judges  than  his  schoolfellows,  and  were 
indeed  remarkably  clever,  though  destitute  of  the 
native  warmth  that  might  have  made  the  snow 
melt  beneath  his  hand.  As  he  advanced  in  life,  the 
young  man  adopted  pine  and  oak  as  eligible  materials 
for  the  display  of  his  skill,  which  now  began  to 
bring  him  a return  of  solid  silver  as  well  as  the 
empty  praise  that  had  been  an  apt  reward  enough 
for  his  productions  of  evanescent  snow.  He  be- 
came noted  for  carving  ornamental  pump-heads,  and 
wooden-urns  for  gate-posts,  and  decorations  more 
grotesque  than  fanciful  for  mantel-pieces.  No  apothe- 
cary would  have  deemed  himself  in  the  way  of 
obtaining  custom  without  setting  up  a gilded  mortar, 
if  not  a head  of  Galen  or  Hippocrates,  from  the 
skillful  hand  of  Drowne. 


76 


HAWTHORNE 


But  the  great  scope  of  his  business  lay  in  the 
manufacture  of  figureheads  for  vessels.  Whether  it 
were  the  monarch  himself,  or  some  famous  British 
admiral  or  general,  or  the  governor  of  the  prov- 
ince, or  perchance  the  favorite  daughter  of  the  ship- 
owner, there  the  image  stood  above  the  prow,  decked 
out  in  gorgeous  colors,  magnificently  gilded,  and 
staring  the  whole  world  out  of  countenance,  as  if 
from  an  innnate  consciousness  of  its  own  superior- 
ity. These  specimens  of  native  sculpture  had  crossed 
the  sea  in  all  directions,  and  been  not  ignobly  no- 
ticed among  the  crowded  shipping  of  the  Thames 
and  wherever  else  the  hardy  mariners  of  New  Eng- 
land had  pushed  their  adventures.  It  must  be  con- 
fessed that  a family  likeness  pervaded  these  re- 
spectable progeny  of  Drowne’s  skill;  that  the  benign 
countenance  of  the  king  resembled  those  of  his  sub- 
jects, and  that  Miss  Peggy  Hobart,  the  merchant’s 
daughter,  bore  a remarkable  similitude  to  Britannia, 
Victory,  and  other  ladies  of  the  allegoric  sister- 
hood ; and  finally,  that  they  all  had  a kind  of  wooden 
aspect  which  proved  an  intimate  relationship  with  the 
unshaped  blocks  of  timber  in  the  carver’s  workshop. 
But  at  least  there  was  no  inconsiderable  skill  of  hand, 
nor  a deficiency  of  any  attribute  to  render  them 
really  works  of  art,  except  that  deep  quality,  be  it  of 
soul  or  intellect,  which  bestows  life  upon  the  life- 
less and  warmth  upon  the  cold,  and  which,  had  it 
been  present,  would  have  made  Drowne’s  wooden 
image  instinct  with  spirit. 

The  captain  of  the  Cynosure  had  now  finished 
his  instructions. 


BROWNE’S  WOODEN  IMAGE 


77 


“And  Browne,”  said  he,  impressively,  “you  must 
lay  aside  all  other  business  and  set  about  this  forth- 
with. And  as  to  the  price,  only  do  the  job  in  first- 
rate  style,  and  you  shall  settle  that  point  yourself.” 

“Very  well,  captain,”  answered  the  carver,  who 
looked  grave  and  somewhat  perplexed,  yet  had  a 
sort  of  smile  upon  his  visage ; “depend  upon  it. 
I’ll  do  my  utmost  to  satisfy  you.” 

From  that  moment  the  men  of  taste  about  Long 
Wharf  and  the  Town  Dock  who  were  wont  to  show 
their  love  for  the  arts  by  frequent  visits  to  Drowne’s 
workshop,  and  admiration  of  his  wooden  images,, 
began  to  be  sensible  of  a mystery  in  the  carver’s 
conduct.  Often  he  was  absent  in  the  daytime. 
Sometimes,  as  might  be  judged  by  gleams  of  light 
from  the  shop  windows,  he  was  at  work  until  a late 
hour  in  the  evening,  although  neither  knock  nor 
voice,  on  such  occasions,  could  gain  admittance  for 
a visitor  or  elicit  any  word  of  response.  Nothing 
remarkable,  however,  was  observed  in  the  shop  at 
those  hours  when  it  was  thrown  open.  A fine  piece 
of  timber,  indeed,  which  Drowne  was  known  to  have 
reserved  for  some  work  of  especial  dignity,  was  seen 
to  be  gradually  assuming  shape.  What  shape  it 
was  destined  ultimately  to  take  was  a problem  to 
his  friends  and  a point  on  which  the  carver  him- 
self preserved  a rigid  silence.  But  day  after  day, 
though  Drowne  was  seldom  noticed  in  the  act  of 
working  upon  it,  this  rude  form  began  to  be  de- 
veloped until  it  became  evident  to  all  observers 
that  a female  figure  was  growing  into  mimic  fife. 
At  each  new  visit  they  beheld  a larger  pile  of  wqspriep* 


78 


HAWTHORNE 


chips  and  nearer  proximation  to  something  beautiful. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  hamadryad  of  the  oak  had  shel- 
tered herself  from  the  unimaginative  world  within 
the  heart  of  her  native  tree,  and  that  it  was  only 
necessary  to  remove  the  strange  shapelessness  that 
had  incrusted  her,  and  reveal  the  grace  and  loveli- 
ness of  a divinity.  Imperfect  as  the  design,  the  atti- 
tude, the  costume,,  and  especially  the  face  of  the 
image,  still  remained,  there  was  already  an  effect 
that  drew  the  eye  from  the  wooden  cleverness  of 
Drowne’s  earlier  productions  and  fixed  it  upon  the 
tantalizing  mystery  of  this  new  project. 

Copley,  the  celebrated  painter,  then  a young  man 
and  a resident  of  Boston,  came  one  day  to  visit 
Drowne;  for  he  had  recognized  so  much  of  mod- 
erate ability  in  the  carver  as  to  induce  him,  in  the 
dearth  of  professional  sympathy,  to  cultivate  his 
acquaintance.  On  entering  the  shop,  the  artist 
glanced  at  the  inflexible  image  of  king,  commander, 
dame,  and  allegory  that  stood  around  on  the  best 
of  which  might  have  been  bestowed  the  question- 
able praise  that  it  looked  as  if  a living  man  had 
here  been  changed  to  wood,  and  that  not  only  the 
physical,  but  the  intellectual  and  spiritual,  part  par- 
took of  the  stolid  transformation.  But  in  not  a 
single  instance  did  it  seem  as  if  the  wood  were 
imbibing  the  ethereal  essence  of  humanity.  What  a 
wide  distinction  is  here!  and  how  far  would  the 
slightest  portion  of  the  latter  merit  have  outvalued 
the  utmost  degree  of  the  former! 

“My  friend  Drowne,”  said  Copley,  smiling  to 
himself,  but  alluding  to  the  mechanical  and  wooden 


DROWNE’S  WOODEN  IMAGE  79 


cleverness  that  so  invariably  distinguished  the 
images,  “you  are  really  a remarkable  person ! I 
have  seldom  met  with  a man  in  your  line  of  busi- 
ness that  could  do  so  much;  for  one  other  touch 
might  make  this  figure  of  General  Wolfe,  for  in- 
stance, a breathing  and  intelligent  human  creature.” 

“You  would  have  me  think  you  were  praising 
me  highly,  Mr.  Copley,”  answered  Drowne,  turning 
his  back  upon  Wolfe’s  image  in  apparent  disgust. 
“But  there  has  come  a light  into  my  mind.  I know, 
what  you  know  as  well,  that  the  one  touch  which 
you  speak  of  as  deficient  is  the  only  one  that  would 
be  truly  valuable,  and  that  without  it  these  works 
of  mine  are  no  better  than  worthless  abortions. 
There  is  the  same  difference  between  them  and  the 
works  of  an  inspired  artist  as  between  a sign-post 
daub  and  one  of  your  best  pictures.” 

“This  is  strange,”  cried  Copley,  looking  him  in 
the  face,  which  now,  as  the  painter  fancied,  had  a 
singular  depth  of  intelligence,  though  hitherto  it 
had  not  given  him  greatly  the  advantages  over 
his  own  family  of  wooden  images.  “What  has  come 
over  you  ? How  is  it  that,  possessing  the  idea  which 
you  have  now  uttered,  you  should  produce  only 
such  works  as  these?” 

The  carver  smiled,  but  made  no  reply.  Copley 
turned  again  to  the  images,  conceiving  that  the 
sense  of  deficiency  which  Drowne  had  just  ex- 
pressed, and  which  is  so  rare  in  a merely  mechanical 
character,  must  surely  imply  a genius,  the  tokens  of 
which  had  heretofore  been  overlooked.  But  no ; 
there  was  not  a trace  of  it.  He  was  about  to  with- 


80 


I-IAWTHORNE 


draw,  when  his  eyes  chanced  to  fall  upon  a half- 
developed  figure  which  lay  in  a corner  of  the  work- 
shop, surrounded  by  scattered  chips  of  oak.  It  ar- 
rested him  at  once. 

“What  is  here?  Who  has  done  this?”  he  broke 
out,  after  contemplating  it  in  speechless  astonish- 
ment for  an  instant.  “Here  is  the  divine,  the  life- 
giving  touch.  What  inspired  hand  is  beckoning  this 
wood  to  arise  and  live?  Whose  work  is  this?” 

“No  man’s  work,”  replied  Drowne.  ‘The  figure 
lies  within  that  block  of  oak,  and  it  is  my  business 
to  find  it.” 

“Drowne,”  said  the  true  artist,  grasping  the  carver 
fervently  by  the  hand,  “you  are  a man  of  genius !” 

As  Copley  departed,  happening  to  glance  backward 
from  the  threshold,  he  beheld  Drowne  bending  over 
the  half-created  shape,  and  stretching  forth  his  arms 
as  if  he  would  have  embraced  and  drawn  it  to  his 
heart,  while,  had  such  a miracle  been  possible,  his 
countenance  expressed  passion  enough  to  communi- 
cate warmth  and  sensibility  to  the  lifeless  oak. 

“Strange  enough !”  said  the  artist  to  himself. 
“Who  would  have  looked  for  a modern  Pygmalion 
in  the  person  of  a Yankee  mechanic!” 

As  yet  the  image  was  but  vague  in  its  outward 
presentment;  so  that  as  in  the  cloud  shapes  around 
the  western  sun  the  observer  rather  felt,  or  was  led 
to  imagine,  than  really  saw  what  was  intended  by 
it.  Day  by  day,  however,  the  work  assumed  greater 
precision,  and  settled  its  irregular  and  misty  outline 
into  distincter  grace  and  beauty.  The  general  de- 
sign was  now  obviou?  *he  common  eye.  It  was 


DROWNE’S  WOODEN  IMAGE  «1 


a female  figure,  in  what  appeared  to  be  a foreign 
dress,  the  gown  being  laced  over  the  bosom,  and 
opening  in  front  so  as  to  disclose  a skirt  or  petti- 
coat, the  folds  and  inequalities  of  which  were  ad- 
mirably represented  in  the  oaken  substance.  She 
wore  a hat  of  singular  gracefulness,  and  abundantly 
laden  with  flowers,  such  as  never  grew  in  the  rude 
soil  of  New  England,  but  which,  with  all  their  fanci- 
ful luxuriance,  had  a natural  truth  that  it  seemed 
impossible  for  the  most  fertile  imagination  to  have 
attained  without  copying  from  real  prototypes.  There 
were  several  little  appendages  to  this  dress,  such  as 
a fan,  a pair  of  earrings,  a chain  about  the  neck,  a 
watch  in  the  bosom,  and  a ring  upon  the  finger,  all 
of  which  would  have  been  deemed  beneath  the  dig- 
nity of  sculpture.  They  were  put  on,  however,  with 
as  much  taste  as  a lovely  woman  might  have  shown 
in  her  attire,  and  could  therefore  have  shocked  none 
but  a judgment  spoiled  by  artistic  rules. 

The  face  was  still  imperfect;  but  gradually,  by  a 
magic  touch,  intelligence  and  sensibility  brightened 
through  the  features,  with  all  the  effect  of  light 
gleaming  forth  from  within  the  solid  oak.  The  face 
became  alive.  It  was  a beautiful,  though  not  pre- 
cisely regular  and  somewhat  haughty  aspect,  but 
with  a certain  piquancy  about  the  eyes  and  mouth, 
which,  of  all  expressions,  would  have  seemed  the 
most  impossible  to  throw  over  a wooden  counte- 
nance. And  now,  so  far  as  carving  went,  this  won- 
derful production  was  complete. 

“Drowne,”  said  Copley,  who  had  hardly  missed  a 
single  day  in  his  visits  to  the  carver's  workshop. 


82 


HAWTHORNE 


“if  this  work  were  in  marble  it  would  make  you  fa- 
mous at  once;  nay,  I would  almost  affirm  that  it 
would  make  an  era  in  the  art.  It  is  as  ideal  as  an 
antique  statue,  and  yet  as  real  as  any  lovely  woman 
whom  one  meets  at  fireside  or  in  the  street.  But  I 
trust  you  do  not  mean  to  desecrate  this  exquisite 
creature  with  paint,  like  those  staring  kings  and 
admirals  yonder  ?” 

“Not  paint  her!”  exclaimed  Captain  Hunnewell, 
who  stood  by ; “not  paint  the  figurehead  of  the  Cyno- 
sure! And  what  sort  of  a figure  should  I cut  in  a 
foreign  port  with  such  an  unpainted  oaken  stick  as 
this  over  my  prowi  She  must  and  she  shall  be 
painted  to  the  life,  from  the  topmost  flower  in  her 
hat  down  to  the  silver  spangles  on  her  slippers.” 

“Mr.  Copley,”  said  Drowne,  quietly,  “I  know 
nothing  of  marble  statuary,  and  nothing  of  the 
sculptor’s  rules  of  art;  but  of  this  wooden  image, 
this  work  of  my  hands,  this  creature  of  my  heart” 
— and  here  his  voice  faltered  and  choked  in  a very 
singular  manner — “of  this — of  her — I may  say  that 
I know  something.  A wellspring  of  inward  wis- 
dom gushed  within  me  as  I wrought  upon  the  oak 
with  my  whole  strength  and  soul  and  faith.  Let 
others  do  what  they  may  with  marble,  and  adopt 
what  rules  they  choose.  If  I can  produce  my  desired 
effect  by  painted  wood,  those  rules  are  not  for  me, 
and  I have  a right  to  disregard  them.” 

“The  very  spirit  of  genius,”  muttered  Copley  to 
himself.  “How  otherwise  should  this  carver  feel 
himself  entitled  to  transcend  all  rules,  and  make 
me  ashamed  of  quoting  them?” 


DROWNE’S  WOODEN  IMAGE  83 


He  looked  earnestly  at  Drowne,  and  again  saw 
that  expression  of  human  love  which,  in  a spirit- 
ual sense,  as  the  artist  could  not  help  imagining, 
was  the  secret  of  the  life  that  had  been  breathed 
into  this  block  of  wood. 

The  carver,  still  in  the  same  secrecy  that  marked 
all  his  operations  upon  this  mysterious  image,  pro- 
ceeded to  paint  the  habiliments  in  their  proper  col- 
ors, and  the  countenance  with  Nature’s  red  and 
white.  When  all  was  finished  he  threw  open  his 
workshop  and  admitted  the  townspeople  to  behold 
what  he  had  done.  Most  persons,  at  their  first 
entrance,  felt  impelled  to  remove  their  hats,  and 
pay  such  reverence  as  was  due  to  the  richly  dressed 
and  beautiful  young  lady  who  seemed  to  stand  in  a 
corner  of  the  room,  with  oaken  chips  and  shavings 
scattered  at  her  feet.  Then  came  a sensation  of  fear, 
as  if,  not  being  actually  human,  yet  so  like  humanity, 
she  must  therefore  be  something  preternatural.  There 
was,  in  truth,  an  indefinable  air  and  expression  that 
might  reasonably  induce  the  query,  Who  and  from 
what  sphere  this  daughter  of  the  oak  should  be? 
The  strange,  rich  flowers  of  Eden  on  her  head ; 
the  complexion,  so  much  deeper  and  more  brilliant 
than  those  of  our  native  beauties;  the  foreign,  as  it 
seemed,  and  fantastic  garb,  yet  not  too  fantastic 
to  be  worn  decorously  in  the  street;  the  delicately 
wrought  embroidery  of  the  skirt;  the  broad  gold 
chain  about  her  neck;  the  curious  ring  upon  her 
finger ; the  fan,  so  exquisitely  sculptured  in  open 
work  and  painted  to  resemble  pearl  and  ebony — 
where  could  Drowne,  in  his  sober  walk  of  life,  have 


84 


HAWTHORNE 


beheld  the  vision  here  so  matchlessly  embodied! 
And  then  her  face!  In  the  dark  eyes  and  around 
the  voluptuous  mouth  there  played  a look,  made  up 
of  pride,  coquetr}'-,  and  a gleam  of  mirthfulness, 
which  impressed  Copley  with  the  idea  that  the  image 
was  secretly  enjoying  the  perplexing  admiration  of 
himself  and  other  beholders. 

'‘And  will  you,”  said  he  to  the  carver,  “permit 
this  masterpiece  to  become  the  figurehead  of  a ves- 
sel? Give  the  honest  captain  yonder  figure  of  Brit- 
annia— it  will  answer  his  purpose  far  better— -and 
send  this  fairy  queen  to  England,  where,  for  aught 
I know,  it  may  bring  you  a thousand  pounds/" 

“I  have  not  wrought  it  for  monej',”  said  Drowne. 

“What  sort  of  a fellow  is  this?”  thought  Copley. 
“A  Yankee,  and  throw  away  the  chance  of  making  his 
fortune!  He  has  gone  mad;  and  thence  has  come 
this  gleam  of  genius.” 

There  was  still  further  proof  of  Browne's  lunacy, 
if  credit  were  due  to  the  rumor  that  he  had  been 
seen  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  the  oaken  lady  and  gazing 
with  a lover's  passionate  ardor  into  the  face  that 
his  own  hands  had  created.  The  bigots  of  the  day 
hinted  that  it  would  be  no  matter  of  surprise  if 
an  evil  spirit  were  allowed  to  enter  this  beautiful 
form  and  seduce  the  carver  to  destruction. 

The  fame  of  the  image  spread  far  and  wide.  The 
inhabitants  visited  it  so  universally  that  after  a few 
days  of  exhibition  there  was  hardly  an  old  man  or 
a child  who  had  not  become  minutely  familiar  with 
its  aspect.  Even  had  the  story  of  Browne's  wooden 
image  ended  here,  its  celebrity  might  have  been  pro- 


DROWNE  S VvrOODGN  IMAGE  8J 


longed  for  many  years  by  the  reminiscences  of  those 
who  looked  upon  it  in  their  childhood,  and  saw 
nothing  else  so  beautiful  in  after  life.  But  the  town 
was  now  astounded  by  an  event,  the  narrative  of 
which  has  formed  itself  into  one  of  the  most  singu- 
lar legends  that  are  yet  to  be  met  with  in  the  tra- 
ditionary chimney-corners  of  the  New  England 
metropolis,  where  old  men  and  women  sit  dreaming 
of  the  past,  and  wag  their  heads  at  the  dreamers  of 
the  present  and  the  future. 

One  fine  morning,  just  before  the  departure  of 
the  Cynosure  on  her  second  voyage  to  Fayal,  the 
commander  of  that  gallant  vessel  was  seen  to  issue 
from  his  residence  in  Hanover  Street.  He  was  styl- 
ishly dressed  in  a blue  broadcloth  coat,  with  gold 
lace  at  the  seams  and  buttonholes,  an  embroidered 
scarlet  waistcoat,  a triangular  hat,  with  a loop  and 
broad  binding  of  gold,  and  wore  a silver-hilted 
hanger  at  his  side.  But  the  good  captain  might  have 
been  arrayed  in  the  robes  of  a prince  or  the  rags  of  a 
beggar,  without  in  either  case  attracting  notice,  while 
obscured  by  such  a companion  as  now  leaned  on  his 
arm.  The  people  in  the  street  started,  rubbed  their 
eyes,  and  either  leaped  aside  from  their  path  or 
stood  as  if  transfixed  to  wood  or  marble  in  aston- 
ishment. 

“Do  you  see  it? — do  you  see  it?”  cried  on$,  with 
tremulous  eagerness.  “It  is  the  very  same!” 

“The  same?”  answered  another,  who  had  ai  rived 
in  town  only  the  night  before.  “Who  do  you  mean? 
I see  only  a sea-captain  in  his  shore-going  clothes, 
and  a young  lady  in  a foreign  habit,  with  a bunch 


80 


HAWTHORNE 


of  beautiful  flowers  in  her  hat.  On  my  word,  she  is 
as  fair  and  bright  a damsel  as  my  eyes  have  looked 
on  this  many  a day!” 

“Yes;  the  same! — the  very  same!”  repeated  the 
other.  “Drowne’s  wooden  image  has  come  to  life!” 

Here  was  a miracle  indeed!  Yet,  illuminated  by 
the  sunshine,  or  darkened  by  the  alternate  shade 
of  the  houses,  and  with  its  garments  fluttering 
lightly  in  the  morning  breeze,  there  passed  the  image 
along  the  street.  It  was  exactly  and  minutely  the 
shape,  the  garb,  and  the  face  which  the  townspeople 
had  so  recently  thronged  to  see  and  admire.  Not 
a rich  flower  upon  her  head,  not  a single  leaf,  but 
had  had  its  prototype  in  Drowne’s  wooden  workman- 
ship, although  now  their  fragile  grace  had  become 
flexible,  and  was  shaken  by  every  footstep  that  the 
wearer  made.  The  broad  gold  chain  upon  the  neck 
was  identical  with  the  one  represented  on  the  image, 
and  glistened  with  the  motion  imparted  by  the  rise 
and  fall  of  the  bosom  which  it  decorated.  A real 
diamond  sparkled  o^  her  finger.  In  her  right  hand 
she  bore  a pearl  and  ebony  fan,  which  she  flour- 
ished with  a fantastic  and  bewitching  coquetry  that 
was  likewise  expressed  in  all  her  movements,  as  well 
as  in  the  style  of  her  beauty  and  the  attire  that  so 
well  harmonized  with  it.  The  face  with  its  brilliant 
depth  of  complexion  had  the  same  piquancy  of  mirth- 
ful mischief  that  was  fixed  upon  the  countenance  of 
the  image,  but  which  was  here  varied  and  continually 
shifting,  yet  always  essentially  the  same,  like  the 
sunny  gleam  upon  a bubbling  fountain.  On  the 
whole,  there  was  something  so  airy  and  yet  so  real 


DROWNE’S  WOODEN  IMAGE  87 


in  the  figure,  and  withal  so  perfectly  did  it  repre- 
sent Drowne’s  image,  that  people  knew  not  whether 
to  suppose  the  magic  wood  etherea.lized  into  a spirit 
or  warmed  and  softened  into  an  actual  woman. 

“One  thing  is  certain,”  muttered  a Puritan  of 
the  old  stamp,  “Drowne  has  sold  himself  to  the 
devil;  and  doubtless  this  gay  Captain  Hunnewell  is 
a party  to  the  bargain.” 

“And  I,”  said  a young  man  who  overheard  him, 
“would  almost  consent  to  be  the  third  victim  for  the 
liberty  of  saluting  those  lovely  lips.” 

“And  so  would  I,”  said  Copley,  the  painter,  “for 
the  privilege  of  taking  her  picture.” 

The  image,  or  the  apparition,  whichever  it  might 
be,  still  escorted  by  the  bold  captain,  proceeded 
from  Hanover  Street,  through  some  of  the  cross- 
lanes that  make  this  portion  of  the  town  so  intri- 
cate, to  Ann  Street,  thence  into  Dock  Square,  and 
so  downward  to  Drowne’s  shop,  which  stood  just 
on  the  water’s  edge.  The  crowd  still  followed, 
gathering  volume  as  it  rolled  along.  Never  had  a 
modern  miracle  occurred  in  such  broad  daylight,  nor 
in  the  presence  of  such  a multitude  of  witnesses. 
The  airy  image,  as  if  conscious  that  she  was  the 
object  of  the  murmurs  and  disturbance  mat  swelled 
behind  her,  appeared  slightly  vexed  and  flustered,  yet 
still  in  a manner  consistent  with  the  light  vivacity 
and  sportive  mischief  that  were  written  in  her  coun- 
tenance. 

She  was  observed  to  flutter  her  fan  with  stlch 
vehement  rapidity  that  the  elaborate  delicacy  of  its 


88  HAWTHORNE 

workmanship  gave  way,  and  it  remained  broken  in 
her  hand. 

Arriving  at  Drowne’s  door,  while  the  captain 
threw  it  open,  the  marvelous  apparition  paused  an 
instant  on  the  threshold,  assuming  the  very  attitude 
of  the  image,  and  casting  over  the  crowd  that  glance 
of  sunny  coquetry  which  all  remembered  on  the 
face  of  the  oaken  lady.  She  and  her  cavalier  then 
disappeared. 

“Ah !”  murmured  the  crowd,  drawing  a deep 
breath,  as  if  with  one  vast  pair  of  lungs. 

“The  world  looks  darker  now  that  she  has  van- 
ished,” said  some  of  the  young  men. 

But  the  aged,  whose  recollections  dated  as  far 
back  as  witch  times,  shook  their  heads,  and  hinted 
that  our  forefathers  would  have  thought  it  a pious 
deed  to  burn  the  daughter  of  the  oak  with  fire. 

“If  she  be  other  than  a bubble  of  the  elements,” 
exclaimed  Copley,  “I  must  look  upon  her  face 
again.” 

He  accordingly  entered  the  shop ; and  there,  in 
her  usual  corner,  stood  the  image,  gazing  at  him, 
as  it  might  seem,  with  the  very  same  expression 
of  mirthful  mischief  that  had  been  the  farewell 
look  of  the  apparition  when,  but  a moment  before, 
she  turned  her  face  toward  the  crowd.  The  carver 
stood  beside  his  creation  mending  the  beautiful  fan, 
which  by  some  accident  was  broken  in  her  hand. 
But  there  was  no  longer  any  motion  in  the  lifelike 
image,  nor  any  real  woman  in  the  workshop,  nor 
even  the  wtichcraft  of  a sunny  shadow,  that  might 
have  deluded  people’s  eyes  as  it  flitted  along  the 


DROWNE’S  WOODEN  IMAGE  89 


street.  Captain  Hunnewell,  too,  had  vanished. 
His  hoarse,  sea-breezy  tones,  however,  were  audi- 
ble on  the  other  side  of  a door  that  opened  upon 
the  water. 

“Sit  down  in  the  stern-sheets,  my  lady,”  said 
the  gallant  captain.  “Come,  bear  a hand,  you  lub- 
bers, and  set  us  aboard  in  the  turning  of  a minute- 
glass.” 

And  then  was  heard  the  stroke  of  oars. 

“Drowne,”  said  Copley,  with  a smile  of  intelli- 
gence, “you  have  been  a truly  fortunate  man. 
What  painter  of  statuary  ever  had  such  a sub- 
ject! No  wonder  that  she  inspired  a genius  into 
you,  and  first  created  the  artist  who  afterward  cre- 
ated her  image.” 

Drowne  looked  at  him  with  a visage  that  bore 
the  traces  of  tears,  but  from  which  the  light  of 
imagination  and  sensibility,  so  recently  illuminating 
it,  had  departed.  He  was  again  the  mechanical 
carver  that  he  had  been  known  to  be  all  his  life- 
time. 

“I  hardly  understand  what  you  mean,  Mr.  Cop- 
ley,” said  he,  putting  his  hand  to  his  brow.  “This 
image!  Can  it  have  been  my  work?  Well,  I have 
wrought  it  in  a kind  of  dream;  and  now  that  I am 
broad  awake  I must  set  about  finishing  yonder  figure 
of  Admiral  Vernon.” 

And  forthwith  he  employed  himself  on  the  stolid 
countenance  of  one  of  his  wooden  progeny,  and 
completed  it  in  his  own  mechanical  style,  from 
which  he  was  never  known  afterward  to  deviate. 
He  followed  his  business  industriously  for  many 


9H 


HAWTHORNE 


years,  acquired  a competence,  and  in  the  latter 
part  of  his  life  attained  to  a dignified  station  in  the 
church,  being  remembered  in  records  and  tradi- 
tions as  Deacon  Drowne,  the  carver.  One  of  his 
productions,  an  Indian  chief,  gilded  all  over,  stood 
during  the  better  part  of  a century  on  the  cupola 
of  the  Province  House,  bedazzling  the  eyes  of 
those  who  looked  upward,  like  an  angel  of  the  sun. 
Another  work  of  the  good  deacon’s  hand — a re- 
duced likeness  of  his  friend  Captain  Hunnewell, 
holding  a telescope  and  quadrant — may  be  seen  to 
this  day  at  the  corner  of  Broad  and  State  Streets, 
serving  in  the  useful  capacity  of  sign  to  the  shop 
of  a nautical  instrument-maker.  We  know  not  how 
to  account  for  the  inferiority  of  this  quaint  old 
figure  as  compared  with  the  recorded  excellence 
of  the  Oaken  Lady,  unless  on  the  supposition  that 
in  every  human  spirit  there  is  imagination,  sensi- 
bility, creative  power,  genius,  which,  according  to 
circumstances,  may  either  be  developed  in  this 
world,  or  shrouded  in  a mask  of  dullness  until 
another  state  of  being.  To  our  friend  Drowne 
there  came  a brief  season  of  excitement,  kindled 
by  love.  It  rendered  him  a genius  for  that  one 
occasion,  but,  quenched  in  disappointment,  left  him 
again  the  mechanical  carver  in  wood,  without  the 
power  even  of  appreciating  the  work  that  his  own 
hands  had  wrought.  Yet  who  can  doubt  that  the 
very  highest  state  to  which  a human  spirit  can 
attain,  in  its  loftiest  aspirations,  is  its  truest  and  most 
natural  state,  and  that  Drowne  was  more  consistent 
with  himself  when  he  wrought  the  admirable  figure 


THE  GRAY  CHAMPION  91 

of  the  mysterious  lady  than  when  he  perpetrated 
a whole  progeny  of  blockheads? 

There  was  a rumor  in  Boston,  about  this  period, 
that  a young  Portuguese  lady  of  rank,  on  some 
occasion  of  political  or  domestic  disquietude,  had 
fled  from  her  home  in  Fayal  and  put  herself  under 
the  protection  of  Captain  Hunnewell,  on  board  of 
whose  vessel,  and  at  whose  residence,  she  was 
sheltered  until  a change  of  affairs.  This  fair 
stranger  must  have  been  the  original  of  Drowne's 
Wooden  Image. 


THE  GRAY  CHAMPION 

There  was  once  a time  when  New  England 
groaned  under  the  actual  pressure  of  heavier 
wrongs  than  those  threatened  ones  which  brought 
on  the  Revolution.  James  II.,  the  bigoted  successor 
of  Charles  the  Voluptuous,  had  annulled  the  char- 
ters of  all  the  colonies  and  sent  a harsh  and  un- 
principled soldier  to  take  away  our  liberties  and 
endanger  our  religion.  The  administration  of  Sir 
Edmund  Andros  lacked  scarcely  a single  charac- 
teristic of  tyranny — a governor  and  council  hold- 
ing office  from  the  king  and  wholly  independent 
of  the  country;  laws  made  and  taxes  levied  with- 
out concurrence  of  the  people,  immediate  or  by  their 
representatives;  the  rights  of  private  citizens  vio- 
lated and  the  titles  of  all  landed  property  declared 
void;  the  voice  of  complaint  stifled  by  restrictions 
on  the  press;  and  finally,  disaffection  overawed  by 


92 


HAWTHORNE 


the  first  band  of  mercenary  troops  that  ever  marched 
on  our  free  soil.  For  two  years  our  ancestors  were 
kept  in  sullen  submission  by  that  filial  love  which 
had  invariably  secured  their  allegiance  to  the 
mother-country,  whether  its  head  chanced  to  be  a 
Parliament,  Protector  or  popish  monarch.  Till  these 
evil  times,  however,  such  allegiance  had  been  merely 
nominal,  and  the  colonists  had  ruled  themselves, 
enjoying  far  more  freedom  than  is  even  yet  the 
privilege  of  the  native  subjects  of  Great  Britain. 

At  length  a rumor  reached  our  shores  that  the 
prince  of  Orange  had  ventured  on  an  enterprise 
the  success  of  which  would  be  the  triumph  of  civi! 
and  religious  rights  and  the  salvation  of  New 
England.  It  was  but  a doubtful  whisper;  it  might 
be  false  or  the  attempt  might  fail,  and  in  either 
case  the  man  that  stirred  against  King  James  would 
lose  his  head.  Still,  the  intelligence  produced  a 
marked  effect.  The  people  smiled  mysteriously  in 
the  streets  and  threw  bold  glances  at  their  oppres- 
sors, while  far  and  wide  there  was  a subdued  and 
silent  agitation,  as  if  the  slightest  signal  would 
rouse  the  whole  land  from  its  sluggish  despondency. 
Aware  of  their  danger,  the  rulers  resolved  to  avert 
it  by  an  imposing  display  of  strength,  and  perhaps 
to  confirm  their  despotism  by  yet  harsher  measures. 

One  afternoon  in  April,  1689,  Sir  Edmond  Andros 
and  his  favorite  councillors,  being  warm  with  wine, 
assembled  the  red-coats  of  the  governor's  guard  and 
made  their  appearance  in  the  streets  of  Boston. 
The  sun  was  near  setting  when  the  march  com- 
menced. The  roll  of  the  drum  at  that  unquiet 


THE  GRAY  CHAMPION 


93 


crisis  seemed  to  go  through  the  streets  less  as  the 
martial  music  of  the  soldiers  than  as  a muster-call 
to  the  inhabitants  themselves.  A multitude  by  va- 
rious avenues  assembled  in  King  street,  which  was 
destined  to  be  the  scene,  nearly  a century  afterward, 
of  another  encounter  between  the  troops  of  Brit- 
ain and  a people  struggling  against  her  tyranny. 

Though  more  than  sixty  years  had  elapsed  since 
the  Pilgrims  came,  this  crowd  of  their  descendants 
still  showed  the  strong  and  somber  features  of  their 
character  perhaps  more  strikingly  in  such  a stern 
emergency  than  on  happier  occasions.  There  was 
the  sober  garb,  the  general  severity  of  mien,  the 
gloomy  but  undismayed  expression,  the  scriptural 
forms  of  speech  and  the  confidence  in  Heaven’s 
blessing  on  a righteous  cause  which  would  have 
marked  a band  of  the  original  Puritans  when 
threatened  by  some  peril  of  the  wilderness.  Indeed, 
it  was  not  yet  time  for  the  old  spirit  to  be  extinct, 
since  there  were  men  in  the  street  that  day  who 
had  worshipped  there  beneath  the  trees  before  a 
house  was  reared  to  the  God  for  whom  they  had 
become  exiles.  Old  soldiers  of  the  Parliament  were 
here,  too,  smiling  grimly  at  the  thought  that  their 
aged  arms  might  strike  another  blow  against  the 
house  of  Stuart.  Here,  also,  were  the  veterans 
of  King  Philip’s  war,  who  had  burned  villages  and 
slaughtered  young  and  old  with  pious  fierceness 
while  the  godly  souls  throughout  the  land  were 
helping  them  with  prayer.  Several  ministers  were 
scattered  among  the  crowd,  which,  unlike  all  other 
mobs,  regarded  them  with  such  reverence  as  if 


94 


HAWTHORNE 


there  were  sanctity  in  their  very  garments.  These 
holy  men  exerted  their  influence  to  quiet  the  people, 
but  not  to  disperse  them. 

Meantime,  the  purpose  of  the  governor  in  dis- 
turbing the  peace  of  the  town  at  a period  when  the 
slightest  commotion  might  throw  the  country  into 
a ferment  was  almost  the  universal  subject  ©f  in- 
quiry, and  variously  explained. 

“Satan  will  strike  his  master  stroke  presently/’ 
cried  some,  “because  he  knoweth  that  his  time  is 
short.  All  our  godly  pastors  are  to  be  dragged  to 
prison.  We  shall  see  them  at  a Smithfield  fire  in 
King  street.” 

Hereupon  the  people  of  each  parish  gathered 
closer  round  their  minister,  who  looked  calmly  up- 
ward and  assumed  a more  apostolic  dignity,  as 
well  befitted  a candidate  for  the  highest  honor  of 
his  profession — a crown  of  martyrdom.  It  was  actu- 
ally fancied  at  that  period  that  New  England  might 
have  a John  Rogers  of  her  own  to  take  the  place 
of  that  worthy  in  the  Primer. 

“The  pope  of  Rome  has  given  orders  for  a new 
St.  Bartholomew,”  cried  the  others.  “We  are  to  be 
massacred,  man  and  male-child.” 

Neither  was  this  rumor  wholly  discredited,  al- 
though the  wiser  class  believed  the  governor’s  ob- 
ject somewhat  less  atrocious.  His  predecessor  under 
the  old  charter,  Bradstreet,  a venerable  companion 
of  the  first  settlers,  was  known  to  be  in  town.  There 
were  grounds  for  conjecturing  that  Sir  Edmund 
Andros  intended  at  once  to  strike  terror  by  a parade 


THE  GRAY  CHAMPION  95 

of  military  force  and  to  comfound  the  opposite  fac- 
tion by  possessing  himself  of  their  chief. 

“Stand  firm  for  the  old  charter-governor!” 
shouted  the  crowd,  seizing  upon  the  idea — “the 
good  old  Governor  Bradstreet !” 

While  this  cry  was  at  its  loudest  the  people  were 
surprised  by  the  well-known  figure  of  Governor 
Bradstreet  himself,  a patriarch  of  nearly  ninety,  who 
appeared  on  the  elevated  steps  of  a door  and  with 
characteristic  mildness  besought  them  to  submit  to 
the  constituted  authorities. 

“My  children,”  concluded  this  venerable  person, 
“do  nothing  rashly.  Cry  not  aloud,  but  pray  for  the 
welfare  of  New  England  and  expect  patiently  what 
the  Lord  will  do  in  this  matter.” 

The  event  was  soon  to  be  decided.  All  this  time 
the  roll  of  the  drum  had  been  approaching  through 
Cornhill,  louder  and  deeper,  till  with  reverbera- 
tions from  house  to  house  and  the  regular  tramp  of 
martial  footsteps  it  burst  into  the  street.  A double 
rank  of  soldiers  made  their  appearance,  occupying 
the  whole  breadth  of  the  passage,  with  shouldered 
matchlocks  and  matches  burning,  so  as  to  present 
a row  of  fires  in  the  dusk.  Their  steady  march  was 
like  the  progress  of  a machine  that  would  roll  irre- 
sistibly over  everything  in  its  way.  Next,  moving 
slowly,  with  a confused  clatter  of  hoofs  on  the  pave- 
ment, rode  a party  of  mounted  gentlemen,  the  cen- 
tral figure  being  Sir  Edmund  Andros,  elderly,  but 
erect  and  soldier-like.  Those  around  him  were  his 
favorite  councillors  and  the  bitterest  foes  of  New 
England.  At  his  right  hand  rode  Edward  Randolph, 


96 


HAWTHORNE 


our  arch-enemy,  that  “blasted  wretch,”  as  Cotton 
Mather  calls  him,  who  achieved  the  downfall  of  our 
ancient  government  and  was  followed  with  a sen- 
sible curse  through  life  and  to  his  grave.  On  the 
other  side  was  Bullivant,  scattering  jests  and  mock- 
ery as  he  rode  along.  Dudley  came  behind  with  a 
downcast  look,  dreading,  as  well  he  might,  to  meet 
the  indignant  gaze  of  the  people,  who  beheld  him, 
their  only  countryman  by  birth,  among  the  op- 
pressors of  his  native  land.  The  captain  of  a frigate 
in  the  harbor  and  two  or  three  civil  officers  under 
the  Crown  were  also  there.  But  the  figure  which 
most  attracted  the  public  eye  and  stirred  up  the 
deepest  feeling  was  the  Episcopal  clergyman  of 
King’s  Chapel  riding  haughtily  among  the  magis- 
trates in  his  priestly  vestments,  the  fitting  repre- 
sentative of  prelacy  and  persecution,  the  union  of 
Church  and  State,  and  all  those  abominations  which 
had  driven  the  Puritans  to  the  wilderness.  Another 
guard  of  soldiers,  in  double  rank,  brought  up  the 
rear. 

The  whole  scene  was  a picture  of  the  condition  of 
New  England,  and  its  moral,  the  deformity  of  any 
government  that  does  not  grow  out  of  the  nature 
of  things  and  the  character  of  the  people — on  one 
side  the  religious  multitude  with  their  sad  visages 
and  dark  attire,  and  on  the  other  the  group  of  des- 
potic rulers  with  the  high  churchman  in  the  midst 
and  here  and  there  a crucifix  at  their  bosoms,  all 
magnificently  clad,  flushed  with  wine,  proud  of  un- 
just authority  and  scoffing  at  the  universal  groan. 
And  the  mercenary  soldiers  waiting  but  the  word 


THE  GRAY  CHAMPION 


97 


to  deluge  the  street  with  blood,  showed  the  only 
means  by  which  obedience  could  be  secured. 

“O  Lord  of  hosts,”  cried  a voice  among  the  crowd; 
“provide  a champion  for  thy  people!” 

This  ejaculation  was  loudly  uttered,  and  served 
as  a herald’s  cry  to  introduce  a remarkable  personage. 
The  crowd  had  rolled  back,  and  were  now  huddled 
together  nearly  at  the  extremity  of  the  street,  while 
the  soldiers  had  advanced  no  more  than  a third  of 
its  length.  The  intervening  space  was  empty — a 
paved  solitude  between  lofty  edifices  which  threw 
almost  a twilight  shadow  over  it.  Suddenly  there 
was  seen  the  figure  of  an  ancient  man  who  seemed 
to  have  emerged  from  among  the  people  and  was 
walking  by  himself  along  the  centre  of  the  street 
to  confront  the  armed  band.  Pie  wore  the  old  Puri- 
tan dress — a dark  cloak  and  a steeple-crowned  hat 
in  the  fashion  of  at  least  fifty  years  before,  with  a 
heavy  sword  upon  his  thigh,  but  a staff  in  his  hand 
to  assist  the  tremulous  gait  of  age. 

When  at  some  distance  from  the  multitude,  the 
old  man  turned  slowly  round,  displaying  a face  of 
antique  majesty  rendered  doubly  venerable  by  the 
hoary  beard  that  descended  on  his  breast  He  made 
a gesture  at  once  of  encouragement  and  warning, 
then  turned  again  and  resumed  his  way. 

“Who  is  this  gray  patriarch?”  asked  the  young 
men  of  their  sires. 

“Who  is  this  venerable  brother?”  asked  the  old 
men  among  themselves. 

But  none  could  make  reply.  The  fathers  of  the 
people,  those  of  fourscore  years  and  upward,  were 


HAWTHORNE 


disturbed,  deeming  it  strange  that  they  should  forget 
one  of  such  evident  authority  whom  they  must  have 
known  in  their  early  days,  the  associates  of  Winthrop 
and  all  the  old  councillors,  giving  laws  and  mak- 
ing prayers  and  leading  them  against  the  savage. 
The  elderly  men  ought  to  have  remembered  him, 
too,  with  locks  as  gray  in  their  youth  as  their  own 
were  now.  And  the  young!  How  could  he  have 
passed  so  utterly  from  their  memories — that  hoary 
sire,  the  relic  of  long-departed  times,  whose  awful 
benediction  had  surely  been  bestowed  on  their  un- 
covered heads  in  childhood? 

“Whence  did  he  come?  What  is  his  purpose? 
Who  can  this  old  man  be?”  whispered  the  wondering 
crowd. 

Meanwhile,  the  venerable  stranger,  staff  in  hand, 
was  pursuing  his  solitary  walk  along  the  centre  of 
the  street.  As  he  drew  near  the  advancing  soldiers, 
and  as  the  roll  of  their  drum  came  full  upon  his  ear, 
the  old  man  raised  himself  to  a loftier  mien,  while 
the  decrepitude  of  age  seemed  to  fall  from  his  shoul- 
ders, leaving  him  in  gray  but  unbroken  dignity.  Now 
he  marched  onward  with  a warrior’s  step,  keeping 
time  to  the  military  music.  Thus  the  aged  form 
advanced  on  one  side  and  the  whole  parade  of  sol- 
diers and  magistrates  on  the  other,  till,  when  scarcely 
twenty  yards  remained  between  them,  the  old  man 
grasped  his  staff  by  the  middle  and  held  it  before 
him  like  a leader’s  truncheon. 

“Stand!”  cried  he. 

The  eye,  the  face  and  attitude  of  command,  the 
solemn  yet  warlike  peal  of  that  voice — fit  either  to 


THE  GRAY  CHAMPION 


99 


*ule  a host  in  the  battle-field  or  to  be  raised  to  God 
n prayer — were  irresistible.  At  the  old  man’s  word 
md  outstretched  arm  the  roll  of  the  drum  was 
lushed  at  once  and  the  advancing  line  stood  still. 
\ tremulous  enthusiasm  seized  upon  the  multitude, 
rhat  stately  form,  combining  the  leader  and  the  saint, 
>0  gray,  so  dimly  seen,  in  such  an  ancient  garb,  could 
mly  belong  to  some  old  champion  of  the  righteous 
:ause  whom  the  oppressor’s  drum  had  summoned 
from  his  grave.  They  raised  a shout  of  awe  and 
exultation,  and  looked  for  the  deliverance  of  New 
England. 

The  governor  and  the  gentlemen  of  his  party,  per- 
eeiving  themselves  brought  to  an  unexpected  stand, 
■ode  hastily  forward,  as  if  they  would  have  pressed 
:heir  snorting  and  affrighted  horses  right  against  the 
loary  apparition.  He,  however,  blenched  not  a step, 
nit,  glancing  his  severe  eye  round  the  group,  which 
lalf-encompassed  him,  at  last  bent  it  sternly  on  Sir 
Edmund  Andros.  One  would  have  thought  that  the 
lark  old  man  was  chief  ruler  there,  and  that  the 
governor  and  council  with  soldiers  at  their  back, 
■epresenting  the  whole  power  and  authority  of  the 
Erown,  had  no  alternative  but  obedience. 

“What  does  this  old  fellow  here?”  cried  Edward 
Randolph,  fiercely. — “On,  Sir  Edmund!  Bid  the 
soldiers  forward,  and  give  the  dotard  the  same 
:hoice  that  you  gave  all  his  countrymen — to  stand 
iside  or  be  trampled  on.” 

“Nay,  na#’,  let  us  show  respect  to  the  good 
jrandsire,”  said  Bullivant,  laughing.  “See  you  not 
le  is  some  old  round-headed  dignitary  who  hath 


ICO 


HAWTHORNE 


lain  asleep  these  thirty  years  and  knows  nothin 
of  the  change  of  times?  Doubtless  he  thinks  to  pi 
us  down  with  a proclamation  in  Old  Noll’s  name. 

“Are  you  mad,  old  man?”  demanded  Sir  Ec 
mund  Andros  in  loud  and  harsh  tones.  “How  dai 
you  stay  the  march  of  King  James'  governor?" 

“I  have  stayed  the  march  of  a king  himself  er 
now,"  replied  the  gray  figure,  with  stern  compos 
ure.  “I  am  here,  Sir  Governor,  because  the  cry  c 
an  oppressed  people  hath  disturbed  me  in  my  seen 
place,  and,  beseeching  this  favor  earnestly  of  th 
Lord,  it  was  vouchsafed  me  to  appear  once  agai 
on  earth  in  the  good  old  cause  of  his  saints.  An 
what  speak  ye  of  James?  There  is  no  longer 
popish  tyrant  on  the  throne  of  England,  and  by  tc 
morrow  noon  his  name  shall  be  a by-word  in  thi 
very  street,  where  ye  would  make  it  a word  of  ter 
ror.  Back,  thou  that  wast  a governor,  back!  Wit 
this  night  thy  power  is  ended.  To-morrow,  th 
prison ! Back,  lest  I foretell  the  scaffold !” 

The  people  had  been  drawing  nearer  and  neare 
and  drinking  in  the  words  of  their  champion,  wh 
spoke  in  accents  long  disused,  like  one  unaccus 
tomed  to  converse  except  with  the  dead  of  man. 
years  ago.  But  his  voice  stirred  their  souls.  The; 
confronted  the  soldiers,  not  wholly  without  arm 
and  ready  to  convert  the  very  stones  of  the  stree 
into  deadly  weapons.  Sir  Edmund  Andros  looke< 
at  the  old  man;  then  he  cast  his  hard  and  cruel  ey 
over  the  multitude  and  beheld  them  burning  witl 
that  lurid  wrath  so  difficult  to  kindle  or  to  quench 
and  again  he  fixed  his  gaze  on  the  aged  forn 


THE  GRAY  CHAMPION 


101 


which  stood  obscurely  in  an  open  space  where  neither 
friend  nor  foe  had  thrust  himself.  What  were  his 
thoughts  he  uttered  no  word  which  might  discover, 
but,  whether  the  oppressor  were  overawed  by  the 
Gray  Champion’s  look  or  perceived  his  peril  in 
the  threatening  attitude  of  the  people,  it  is  certain 
that  he  gave  back  and  ordered  his  soldiers  to  com- 
mence a slow  and  guarded  retreat.  Before  another 
sunset  the  governor  and  all  that  rode  so  proudly 
with  him  were  prisoners,  and  long  ere  it  was  known 
that  James  had  abdicated  King  William  was  pro- 
claimed throughout  New  England. 

But  where  was  the  Gray  Champion?  Some  re- 
ported that  when  the  troops  had  gone  from  King 
street  and  the  people  were  thronging  tumultuously 
in  their  rear,  Bradstreet,  the  aged  governor,  was 
seen  to  embrace  a form  more  aged  than  his  own. 
Dthers  soberly  affirmed  that  while  they  marveled  at 
:he  venerable  grandeur  of  his  aspect  the  old  man 
lad  faded  from  their  eyes,  melting  slowly  into  the 
lues  of  twilight,  till  where  he  stood  there  was  an 
mipty  space.  But  all  agreed  that  the  hoary  shape 
was  gone.  The  men  of  that  generation  watched 
ror  his  reappearance  in  sunshine  and  in  twilight,  but 
lever  saw  him  more,  nor  knew  when  his  funeral 
massed  nor  where  his  gravestone  was. 

And  who  was  the  Gray  Champion?  Perhaps  his 
lame  might  be  found  in  the  records  of  that  stern 
:ourt  of  justice  which  passed  a sentence  too  mighty 
or  the  age,  but  glorious  in  all  after-times  for  its 
lumbling  lesson  to  the  monarch  and  its  high  ex- 
ample to  the  subject.  I have  heard  that  whenever 


102 


HAWTHORNE 


the  descendants  of  the  Puritans  are  to  show  the 
spirit  of  their  sires  the  old  man  appears  again. 
When  eighty  years  had  passed,  he  walked  once  more 
in  King  street.  Five  years  later,  in  the  twilight 
of  an  April  morning,  he  stood  on  the  green  beside 
the  meeting-house  at  Lexington  where  now  the 
obelisk  of  granite  with  a slab  of  slate  inlaid  com- 
memorates the  first-fallen  of  the  Revolution.  And 
when  our  fathers  were  toiling  at  the  breastworks 
on  Bunker’s  Hill,  all  through  that  night  the  old 
warrior  walked  his  rounds.  Long,  long  may  it  be 
ere  he  comes  again!  His  hour  is  one  of  darkness 
and  adversity  and  peril.  But  should  domestic 
tyranny  oppress  us  or  the  invader’s  step  pollute 
our  soil,  still  may  the  Gray  Champion  come!  for 
he  is  the  type  of  New  England’s  hereditary  spirit, 
and  his  shadowy  march  on  the  eve  of  danger  must 
ever  be  the  pledge  that  New  England’s  sons  will 
vindicate  their  ancestry. 


THE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE 


103 


THE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE* 

A MYSTERY  OF  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS. 

At  nightfall  once  in  the  olden  time,  on  the  rugged 
side  of  one  of  the  Crystal  Hills,  a party  of  ad- 
venturers were  refreshing  themselves  after  a toil- 
some and  fruitless  quest  for  the  Great  Carbuncle. 
They  had  come  thither,  not  as  friends  nor  partners 
in  the  enterprise,  but  each,  save  one  youthful  pair, 
impelled  by  his  own  splfish  and  solitary  longing  for 
this  wondrous  gem.  Their  feeling  of  brotherhood, 
however,  was  strong  enough  to  induce  them  to  con- 
tribute a mutual  aid  in  building  a rude  hut  of 
branches  and  kindling  a great  fire  of  shattered 
pines  that  had  drifted  down  the  headlong  current 
of  the  Amonoosuck,  on  the  lower  bank  of  which  they 
were  to  pass  the  night.  There  was  but  one  of  their 
number,  perhaps,  who  had  become  so  estranged 
from  natural  sympathies  by  the  absorbing  spell 
of  the  pursuit  as  to  acknowledge  no  satisfaction 
at  the  sight  of  human  faces  in  the  remote  and  soli- 
tary region  whither  they  had  ascended.  A vast 
extent  of  wilderness  lay  between  them  and  the 
nearest  settlement,  while  scant  a mile  above  their 

*The  Indian  tradition  on  which  this  somewhat  extravagant 
tale  is  founded  is  both  too  wild  and  too  beautiful  to  be 
adequately  wrought  up  in  prose.  Sullivan,  in  his  history 
of  Maine,  written  since  the  Revolution,  remarks  that  even 
then  the  existence  of  the  Great  Carbuncle  was  not  entirely 
discredited. 


HAWTHORNE 


104 

heads  was  that  bleak  verge  where  the  hills  throw 
off  their  shaggy  mantle  of  forest-trees  and  either 
robe  themselves  in  clouds  or  tower  naked  into  the 
sky.  The  roar  of  the  Amonoosuck  would  have  been 
to  awful  for  endurance  if  only  a solitary  man  had 
listened  while  the  mountain-stream  talked  with  the 
wind. 

The  adventurers,  therefore,  exchanged  hospitable 
greetings  and  welcomed  one  another  to  the  hut 
where  each  man  was  the  host  and  all  were  the 
guests  of  the  whole  company.  They  spread  their 
individual  supplies  of  food  on  the  flat  surface  of 
a rock  and  partook  of  a general  repast;  at  the  close 
of  which  a sentiment  of  good-fellowship  was  per- 
ceptible among  the  party,  though  repressed  by  the 
idea  that  the  renewed  search  for  the  Great  Car- 
buncle must  make  them  strangers  again  in  the 
morning.  Seven  men  and  one  young  woman,  they 
warmed  themselves  together  at  the  fire,  which  ex- 
tended its  bright  wall  along  the  whole  front  of  their 
wigwam.  As  they  observed  the  various  and  con- 
trasted figures  that  made  up  the  assemblage,  each 
man  looking  like  a caricature  of  himself  in  the  un- 
steady light  that  flickered  over  him,  they  came 
mutually  to  the  conclusion  that  an  odder  society 
had  never  met  in  city  or  wilderness,  on  mountain 
or  plain. 

The  eldest  of  the  group — a tall,  lean,  weather- 
beaten man  some  sixty  years  of  age — was  clad  in 
the  skins  of  wild  animals  whose  fashion  of  dress 
he  did  well  to  imitate,  since  the  deer,  the  wolf  and 
the  bear  had  long  been  his  most  intimate  compan- 


THE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE 


105 


ions.  He  was  one  of  those  ill-fated  mortals,  such 
as  the  Indians  told  of,  whom  in  their  early  youth 
the  Great  Carbuncle  smote  with  a peculiar  mad- 
ness and  became  the  passionate  dream  of  their  ex- 
istence. All  who  visited  that  region  knew  him  as 
“the  Seeker,,,  and  by  no  other  name.  As  none  could 
remember  when  he  first  took  up  the  search,  there 
went  a fable  in  the  valley  of  the  Saco  that  for  his 
inordinate  lust  after  the  Great  Carbuncle  he  had 
been  condemned  to  wander  among  the  mountains 
till  the  end  of  time,  still  with  the  same  feverish 
hopes  at  sunrise,  the  same  despair  at  eve.  Near 
this  miserable  Seeker  sat  a little  elderly  personage 
wearing  a high-crowned  hat  shaped  somewhat  like 
a crucible.  He  was  from  beyond  the  sea — a Doc- 
tor Cacaphodel,  who  had  wilted  and  dried  himself 
into  a mummy  by  continually  stooping  over  char- 
coal furnaces  and  inhaling  unwholesome  fumes  dur- 
ing his  researches  in  chemistry  and  alchemy.  It 
was  told  of  him — whether  truly  or  not — that  at  the 
commencement  of  his  studies  he  had  drained  his 
body  of  all  its  richest  blood  and  wasted  it,  with 
other  inestimable  ingredients,  in  an  unsuccessful 
experiment,  and  had  never  been  a well  man  since. 
Another  of  the  adventurers  was  Master  Ichabod 
Pigsnort,  a weighty  merchant  and  selectman  of  Bos- 
ton, and  an  elder  of  the  famous  Mr.  Norton’s 
church.  His  enemies  had  a ridiculous  story  that 
Master  Pigsnort  was  accustomed  to  spend  a whole 
hour  after  prayer-time  every  morning  and  evening 
in  wallowing  naked  among  an  immense  quantity  of 
pine-tree  shillings,  which  were  the  earliest  silver 


106 


HAWTHORNE 


coinage  of  Massachusetts.  Tne  fourth  whom  we 
shall  notice  had  no  name  that  his  companions  knew 
of,  and  was  chiefly  distinguished  by  a sneer  that 
always  contorted  his  thin  visage,  and  by  a prodigious 
pair  of  spectacles  which  were  supposed  to  deform 
and  discolor  the  whole  face  of  nature  to  this  gen- 
tleman’s perception.  The  fifth  adventurer  like- 
wise lacked  a name,  which  was  the  greater  pity, 
as  he  appeared  to  be  a poet.  He  was  a bright-eyed 
man,  but  woefully  pined  away,  which  was  no  more 
than  natural  if,  as  some  people  affirmed,  his  or- 
dinary diet  was  fog,  morning  mist  and  a slice  of 
the  densest  cloud  within  his  reach,  sauced  with 
moonshine  whenever  he  could  get  it.  Certain  it  is 
that  the  poetry  which  flowed  from  him  had  a smack 
of  all  these  dainties.  The  sixth  of  the  party  was 
a young  man  of  haughty  mien  and  sat  somewhat 
apart  from  the  rest,  wearing  his  plumed  hat  loftily 
among  his  elders,  while  the  fire  glittered  on  the 
rich  embroidery  of  his  dress  and  gleamed  intensely 
on  the  jewelled  pommel  of  his  sword.  This  was 
the  lord  De  Vere,  who  when  at  home  was  said  to 
spend  much  of  his  time  in  the  burial-vault  of  his 
dead  progenitors  rummaging  their  mouldy  coffins 
in  search  of  all  the  earthly  pride  and  vainglory  that 
was  hidden  among  bones  and  dust;  so  that,  besides 
his  own  share,  he  had  the  collected  haughtiness  of 
his  whole  line  of  ancestry.  Lastly,  there  was  a 
handsome  youth  in  rustic  garb,  and  by  his  side  a 
blooming  little  person  in  whom  a delicate  shade 
of  maiden  reserve  was  just  melting  into  the  rich 
glow  of  a young  wife’s  affection.  Her  name  was 


THE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE 


107 


Hannah,  and  her  husband’s  Matthew — two  homely 
names,  yet  well  enough  adapted  to  the  simple  pair 
who  seemed  strangely  out  of  place  among  the  whim- 
sical fraternity  whose  wits  had  been  set  agog  by 
the  great  Carbuncle. 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  one  hut,  in  the  bright 
blaze  of  the  same  fire,  sat  this  varied  group  of  ad- 
venturers, all  so  intent  upon  a single  object  that 
of  whatever  else  they  began  to  speak  their  closing 
words  were  sure  to  be  illuminated  with  the  Great 
Carbuncle.  Several  related  the  circumstances  that 
brought  them  thither.  One  had  listened  to  a trav- 
eller’s tale  of  this  marvelous  stone  in  his  own  dis- 
tant country,  and  had  immediately  been  seized  with 
such  a thirst  for  beholding  it  as  could  only  be 
quenched  in  its  intensest  lustre.  Another,  so  long 
ago  as  when  the  famous  Captain  Smith  visited 
these  coasts,  had  seen  it  blazing  far  at  sea,  and  had 
felt  no  rest  in  all  the  intervening  years  till  now  that 
he  took  up  the  search.  A third,  being  encamped 
on  a hunting-expedition  full  forty  miles  south  of 
the  White  Mountains,  awoke  at  midnight  and  beheld 
the  Great  Carbuncle  gleaming  like  a meteor,  so  that 
the  shadows  of  the  trees  fell  backward  from  it. 
They  spoke  of  the  innumerable  attempts  which  had 
been  made  to  reach  the  spot,  and  of  the  singular 
fatality  which  had  hitherto  withheld  success  from 
all  adventurers,  though  it  might  seem  so  easy  to 
follow  to  its  source  a light  that  overpowered  the 
moon  and  almost  matched  the  sun.  It  was  observ- 
able that  each  smiled  scornfully  at  the  madness  of 
every  other  in  anticipating  better  fortune  than  the 


108 


HAWTHORNE 


past,  yet  nourished  a scarcely-hidden  conviction  that 
he  would  himself  be  the  favored  one.  As  if  to  allay 
their  too  sanguine  hopes,  they  recurred  to  the  Indian 
traditions  that  a spirit  kept  watch  about  the  gem 
and  bewildered  those  who  sought  it  either  by  re- 
moving it  from  peak  to  peak  of  the  higher  hills  or 
by  calling  up  a mist  from  the  enchanted  lake  over 
which  it  hung.  But  these  tales  were  deemed  un- 
worthy of  credit,  all  professing  to  believe  that  the 
search  had  been  baffled  by  want  of  sagacity  or  per- 
severance in  the  adventurers,  or  such  other  causes 
as  might  naturally  obstruct  the  passage  to  any  given 
point  among  the  intricacies  of  forest,  valley  and 
mountain. 

In  a pause  of  the  conversation  the  wearer  of  the 
prodigious  spectacles  looked  round  upon  the  party, 
making  each  individual  in  turn  the  object  of  the 
sneer  which  invariably  dwelt  upon  his  countenance. 

“So,  fellow-pilgrims,”  said  he,  “here  we  are, 
seven  wise  men  and  one  fair  damsel,  who  doubtless 
is  as  wise  as  any  graybeard  of  the  company.  Here 
we  are,  I say,  all  bound  on  the  same  goodly  enter- 
prise. Methinks,  now,  it  were  not  amiss  that  each 
of  us  declare  what  he  proposes  to  do  with  the 
Great  Carbuncle,  provided  he  have  the  good  hap  to 
clutch  it. — What  says  our  friend  in  the  bearskin? 
How  mean  you,  good  sir,  to  enjoy  the  prize  which 
you  have  been  seeking  the  Lord  knows  how  long 
among  the  Crystal  Hills?” 

“How  enjoy  it!”  exclaimed  the  aged  Seeker,  bit- 
terly. “I  hope  for  no  enjoyment  from  it:  that  folly 
has  past  long  ago.  I keep  up  the  search  for  this 


THE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE 


109 


accursed  stone  because  the  vain  ambition  of  my 
youth  has  become  a fate  upon  me  in  old  age.  The 
pursuit  alone  is  my  strength,  the  energy  of  my  soul, 
the  warmth  of  my  blood  and  the  pith  and  marrow 
of  my  bones.  Were  I to  turn  my  back  upon  it, 
I should  fall  down  dead  on  the  hither  side  of  the 
notch  which  is  the  gateway  of  this  mountain- region. 
Yet  not  to  have  my  wasted  lifetime  back  again 
would  I give  up  my  hopes  of  the  Great  Carbuncle. 
Having  found  it,  I shall  bear  it  to  a certain  cavern 
that  I wot  of,  and  there,  grasping  it  in  my  arms, 
lie  down  and  die  and  keep  it  buried  with  me  for 
ever.” 

“O  wretch  regardless  of  the  interests  of  science,'* 
cried  Doctor  Cacaphodel,  with  philosophic  indigna- 
tion, “thou  art  not  worthy  to  behold  even  from 
afar  off  the  lustre  of  this  most  precious  gem  that 
ever  was  concocted  in  the  laboratory  of  Nature. 
Mine  is  the  sole  purpose  for  which  a wise  man  may 
desire  the  possession  of  the  Great  Carbuncle.  Im- 
mediately on  obtaining  it— for  I have  a presenti- 
ment, good  people,  that  the  prize  is  reserved  to 
crown  my  scientific  reputation — I shall  return  to 
Europe  and  employ  my  remaining  years  in  reducing 
it  to  its  first  elements.  A portion  of  the  stone  will 
1 grind  to  impalpable  powder,  other  parts  shall 
be  dissolved  in  acids  or  whatever  solvents  will  act 
upon  so  admirable  a composition,  and  the  remainder 
I design  to  melt  in  the  crucible  or  set  on  fire  with 
the  blow-pipe.  By  these  various  methods  I shall 
gain  an  accurate  analysis,  and  finally  bestow  the 


IIO  HAWTHORNE 

result  of  my  labors  upon  the  world  in  a folio 
volume.” 

“Excellent !”  quoth  the  man  with  tne  spectacles. 
“Nor  need  you  hesitate,  learned  sir,  on  account  of 
the  necessary  destruction  of  the  gem,  since  the 
perusal  of  your  folio  may  teach  every  mother's  son 
of  us  to  concoct  a Great  Carbuncle  of  his  own.” 

“But  verily,”  said  Master  Ichabod  Pigsnort,  “for 
mine  own  part,  I object  to  the  making  of  these 
counterfeits,  as  being  calculated  to  reduce  the  mar- 
ketable value  of  the  true  gem.  I tell  ye  frankly, 
sirs,  I have  an  interest  in  keeping  up  the  price. 
Here  have  I quitted  my  regular  traffic,  leaving  my 
warehouse  in  the  care  of  my  clerks  and  putting  my 
credit  to  great  hazard,  and,  furthermore,  have  put 
myself  in  peril  of  death  or  captivity  by  the  accursed 
heathen  savages,  and  all  this  without  daring  to  ask 
the  prayers  of  the  congregation,  because  the  quest 
for  the  Great  Carbuncle  is  deemed  little  better  than 
a traffic  with  the  evil  one.  Now,  think  ye  that  I 
would  have  done  this  grievous  wrong  to  my  soul, 
body,  reputation  and  estate  without  a reasonable 
chance  of  profit?” 

“Not  I,  pious  Mr.  Pigsnort,”  said  the  man  with 
the  spectacles.  “I  never  laid  such  a great  folly  to 
thy  charge.” 

“Truly,  I hope  not,”  said  the  merchant.  “Now, 
as  touching  this  Great  Carbuncle,  I am  free  to  own 
that  I have  never  had  a glimpse  of  it,  but,  be  it  only 
the  hundredth  part  so  bright  as  people  tell,  it  will 
surely  outvalue  the  Great  Mogul's  best  diamond, 
which  he  holds  at  an  incalculable  sum;  wherefore 


THE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE 


111 


I am  minded  to  put  the  Great  Carbuncle  on  ship- 
board and  voyage  with  it  to  England,  France,  Spain, 
Italy,  or  into  the  heathendom  if  Providence  should 
send  me  thither,  and,  in  a word,  dispose  of  the  gem 
to  the  best  bidder  among  the  potentates  of  the 
earth,  that  he  may  place  it  among  his  crown-jewels. 
If  any  of  ye  have  a wiser  plan,  let  him  expound  it." 

“That  have  I,  thou  sordid  man!”  exclaimed  the 
poet.  “Dost  thou  desire  nothing  brighter  than  gold, 
that  thou  wouldst  transmute  all  this  ethereal  lustre 
into  such  dross  as  thou  wallowest  in  already?  For 
myself,  hiding  the  jewel  under  my  cloak,  I shall 
hie  me  back  to  my  attic-chamber  in  one  of  the 
darksome  alleys  of  London.  There  night  and  day 
will  I gaze  upon  it.  My  soul  shall  drink  its  radi- 
ance; it  shall  be  diffused  throughout  my  intellectual 
powers  and  gleam  brightly  in  every  line  of  poesy 
that  I indite.  Thus  long  ages  after  I am  gone  the 
splendor  of  the  Great  Carbuncle  will  blaze  around 
my  name.” 

“Well  said,  Master  Poet!”  cried  he  of  the  spec- 
tacles. “Hide  it  under  thy  cloak,  sayest  thou?  Why, 
it  will  gleam  through  the  holes  and  make  thee  look 
like  a jack-o'-lantern!” 

“To  think,”  ejaculated  the  lord  De  Vere,  rather 
to  himself  than  his  companions,  the  best  of  whom 
he  held  utterly  unworthy  of  his  intercourse — “to 
think  that  a fellow  in  a tattered  cloak  should  talk 
of  conveying  the  Great  Carbuncle  to  a garret  in 
Grubb  street!  Have  not  I resolved  within  myself 
that  the  whole  earth  contains  no  fitter  ornament 
for  the  great  hall  of  my  ancestral  castle?  There 


112 


HAWTHORNE 


shall  it  flame  for  ages,  making  a noonday  of  mid- 
night, glittering  on  the  suits  of  armor,  the  banners 
and  escutcheons,  that  hang  around  the  wall,  and 
keeping  bright  the  memory  of  heroes.  Wherefore 
have  all  other  adventurers  sought  the  prize  in  vain 
but  that  I might  win  it  and  make  it  a symbol  of 
the  glories  of  our  lofty  line?  And  never  on  the 
diadem  of  the  White  Mountains  did  the  Great 
Carbuncle  hold  a place  half  so  honored  as  is  re- 
served for  it  in  the  hall  of  the  De  Veres.,, 

“It  is  a noble  thought,”  said  the  cynic,  with  an 
obsequious  sneer.  “Yet,  might  I presume  to  say  so, 
the  gem  would  make  a rare  sepulchral  lamp,  and 
would  display  the  glories  of  Your  Lordship’s  pro- 
genitors more  truly  in  the  ancestral  vault  than  in 
the  castle-hall.” 

“Nay,  forsooth,”  observed  Matthew,  the  young 
rustic,  who  sat  hand  in  hand  with  his  bride,  “the 
gentleman  has  bethought  himself  of  a profitable 
use  for  this  bright  stone.  Hannah  here  and  I are 
seeking  it  for  a like  purpose.” 

“How,  fellow?”  exclaimed  His  Lordship,  in  sur- 
prise. “What  castle-hall  hast  thou  to  hang  it  in?” 

“No  castle,”  replied  Matthew,  “but  as  neat  a 
Cottage  as  any  within  sight  of  the  Crystal  Hills. 
Ye  must  know,  friends,  that  Hannah  and  I,  being 
wedded  the  last  week,  have  taken  up  the  search  of 
the  Great  Carbuncle  because  we  shall  need  its  light 
in  the  long  winter  evenings  and  it  will  be  such 
a pretty  thing  to  show  the  neighbors  when  they 
visit  us!  It  will  shine  through  the  house,  so  that 
we  may  pick  up  a pin  in  any  corner,  and  will  set 


THE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE 


113 


all  the  windows  a-glowing  as  if  there  were  a great 
fire  of  pine-knots  in  the  chimney.  And  then  how 
pleasant,  when  we  awake  in  the  night,  to  be  able  to 
see  one  another’s  faces !” 

There  was  a general  smile  among  the  adventurers 
at  the  simplicity  of  the  young  couple’s  project  in 
regard  to  this  wondrous  and  invaluable  stone,  with 
which  the  greatest  monarch  on  earth  might  have 
been  proud  to  adorn  his  palace.  Especially  the 
man  with  spectacles,  who  had  sneered  at  all  the 
company  in  turn,  now  twisted  his  visage  into  such 
an  expression  of  ill-natured  mirth  that  Matthew 
asked  him  rather  peevishly  what  he  himself  meant 
to  do  with  the  Great  Carbuncle. 

“The  Great  Carbuncle!”  answered  the  cynic,  with 
ineffable  scorn.  “Why,  you  blockhead,  there  is  no 
such  thing  in  rerum  naturd.  I have  come  three 
thousand  miles,  and  am  resolved  to  set  my  foot 
on  every  peak  of  these  mountains  and  poke  my  head 
into  every  chasm  for  the  sole  purpose  of  demon- 
strating to  the  satisfaction  of  any  man  one  whit 
less  an  ass  than  thyself  that  the  Great  Carbuncle 
is  all  a humbug.” 

Vain  and  foolish  were  the  motives  that  had 
brought  most  of  the  adventurers  to  the  Crystal 
Hills,  but  none  so  vain,  so  foolish,  and  so  impious 
too,  as  that  of  the  scoffer  with  the  prodigious  spec- 
tacles. He  was  one  of  those  wretched  and  evil 
men  whose  yearnings  are  downward  to  the  dark- 
ness instead  of  heavenward,  and  who,  could  they  but 
extinguish  the  lights  which  God  hath  kindled  for 


114  HAWTHORNE 

us,  would  count  the  midnight  gloom  their  chiefest 
glory. 

As  the  cynic  spoke  several  of  the  party  were 
startled  by  a gleam  of  red  splendor  that  showed 
the  huge  shapes  of  the  surrounding  mountains  and 
the  rock-bestrewn  bed  of  the  turbulent  river,  with 
an  illumination  unlike  that  of  their  fire,  on  the 
trunks  and  black  boughs  of  the  forest-trees.  They 
listened  for  the  roll  of  thunder,  but  heard  nothing, 
and  were  glad  that  the  tempest  came  not  near  them 
The  stars — those  dial-points  of  heaven — now  warnec 
the  adventurers  to  close  their  eyes  on  the  blazing 
logs  and  open  them  in  dreams  to  the  glow  of  the 
Great  Carbuncle. 

The  young  married  couple  had  taken  their  lodg- 
ings in  the  farthest  corner  of  the  wigwam,  and 
were  separated  from  the  rest  of  the  party  by  a cur- 
tain of  curiously-woven  twigs  such  as  might  have 
hung  in  deep  festoons  around  the  bridal-bower  of 
Eve.  The  modest  little  wife  had  wrought  this  piece 
of  tapestry  while  the  other  guests  were  talking.  She 
and  her  husband  fell  asleep  with  hands  tenderly 
clasped,  and  awoke  from  visions  of  unearthly  radi- 
ance to  meet  the  more  blessed  light  of  one  another's 
eyes.  They  awoke  at  the  same  instant  and  with  one 
happy  smile  beaming  over  their  two  faces,  which 
grew  brighter  with  their  consciousness  of  the  reality 
of  life  and  love.  But  no  sooner  did  she  recollect 
where  they  were  than  the  bride  peeped  through  the 
interstices  of  the  leafy  curtain  and  saw  that  the  outer 
room  of  the  hut  was  deserted. 

“Up,  dear  Matthew!”  cried  she,  in  haste.  “The 


THE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE  Hu 

strange  folk  are  all  gone.  Up  this  very  minute,  or 
we  shall  lose  the  Great  Carbuncle !” 

In  truth,  so  little  did  these  poor  young  people 
deserve  the  mighty  prize  which  had  lured  them 
thither  that  they  had  slept  peacefully  all  night  and 
till  the  summits  of  the  hills  were  glittering  with 
sunshine,  while  the  other  adventurers  had  tossed 
their  limbs  in  feverish  wakefulness  or  dreamed  of 
climbing  precipices,  and  set  off  to  realize  their 
dreams  with  the  earliest  peep  of  dawn.  Byt  Matthew 
and  Hannah  after  their  calm  rest  were  as  light  as 
two  young  deer,  and  merely  stopped  to  say  their 
prayers  and  wash  themselves  in  a cold  pool  of  the 
Amonoosuck,  and  then  to  taste  a morsel  of  food 
ere  they  turned  their  faces  to  the  mountain-side. 
It  was  a sweet  emblem  of  conjugal  affection  as  they 
toiled  up  the  difficult  ascent  gathering  strength  from 
the  mutual  aid  which  they  afforded. 

After  several  little  accidents,  such  as  a torn  robe, 
a lost  shoe  and  the  entanglement  of  Hannah’s  hair 
sn  a bough,  they  reached  the  upper  verge  of  the 
forest  and  were  now  to  pursue  a more  adventurous 
course.  The  innumerable  trunks  and  heavy  foliage 
of  the  trees  had  hitherto  shut  in  their  thoughts, 
which  now  shrank  affrighted  from  the  region  of 
wind  and  cloud  and  naked  rocks  and  desolate  sun- 
shine that  rose  immeasurably  above  them.  They 
gazed  back  at  the  obscure  wilderness  which  they 
had  traversed,  and  longed  to  be  buried  again  in  its 
depths  rather  than  trust  themselves  to  so  vast  and 
visible  a solitude. 

Shall  we  go  on  ? ’ said  Matthew,  throwing  his 


116 


HAWTHORNE 


arm  round  Hannah’s  waist  both  to  protect  her  and 
to  comfort  his  heart  by  drawing  her  close  to  it. 

But  the  little  bride,  simple  as  she  was,  had  a 
woman’s  love  of  jewels,  and  could  not  forego  the 
hope  of  possessing  the  very  brightest  in  the  world, 
in  spite  of  the  perils  with  which  it  must  be  won. 

“Let  us  climb  a little  higher,”  whispered  she,  yet 
tremulously,  as  she  turned  her  face  upward  to  the 
lonely  sky. 

“Come,  then,”  said  Matthew,  mustering  his  manly 
courage  and  drawing  her  along  with  him ; for  she 
became  timid  again  the  moment  that  he  grew  bold. 

And  upward,  accordingly,  went  the  pilgrims  of 
the  Great  Carbuncle,  now  treading  upon  the  tops 
and  thickly-interwoven  branches  of  dwarf  pines 
which  by  the  growth  of  centuries,  though  mossy 
with  age,  had  barely  reached  three  feet  in  altitude. 
Next  they  came  to  masses  and  fragments  of  naked 
rock  heaped  confusedly  together  like  a cairn  reared 
by  giants  in  memory  of  a giant  chief.  In  this  bleak 
realm  of  upper  air  nothing  breathed,  nothing  grew; 
there  was  no  life  but  what  was  concentred  in  their 
two  hearts;  they  had  climbed  so  high  that  Nature 
herself  seemed  no  longer  to  keep  them  company. 
She  lingered  beneath  them  within  the  verge  of  the 
forest-trees,  and  sent  a farewell  glance  after  her 
children  as  they  strayed  where  her  own  green 
footprints  had  never  been.  But  soon  they  were  to 
be  hidden  from  her  eye.  Densely  and  dark  the  mists 
began  to  gather  below,  casting  black  spots  of  shadow 
on  the  vast  landscape  and  sailing  heavily  to  one 
centre,  as  if  the  loftiest  mountain-peak  had  sum- 


THE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE  111 

moned  a council  of  its  kindred  clouds.  Finally  the 
vapors  welded  themselves,  as  it  were,  into  a mass, 
presenting  the  appearance  of  a pavement  over  which 
the  wanderers  might  have  trodden,  but  where  they 
would  vainly  have  sought  an  avenue  to  the  blessed 
earth  which  they  had  lost.  And  the  lovers  yearned 
to  behold  that  green  earth  again — more  intensely, 
alas ! than  beneath  a clouded  sky  they  had  ever  de- 
sired a glimpse  of  heaven.  They  even  felt  it  a relief 
to  their  desolation  when  the  mists,  creeping  grad- 
ually up  the  mountain,  concealed  its  lonely  peak, 
and  thus  annihilated — at  least,  for  them — the  whole 
region  of  visible  space.  But  they  drew  closer  to- 
gether with  a fond  and  melancholy  gaze,  dreading 
?est  the  universal  cloud  should  snatch  them  from 
each  other's  sight.  Still,  perhaps,  they  would  have 
been  resolute  to  climb  as  far  and  as  high  between 
earth  and  heaven  as  they  could  find  foothold  if 
Hannah’s  strength  had  not  begun  to  fail,  and  with 
that  her  courage  also.  Her  breath  grew  short. 
She  refused  to  burden  her  husband  with  her  weight, 
but  often  tottered  against  his  side,  and  recovered 
herself  each  time  by  a feebler  effort.  At  last  she 
sank  down  on  one  of  the  rocky  steps  of  the  acclivity. 

“We  are  lost,  dear  Matthew,1 ” said  she,  mourn- 
fully; “we  shall  never  find  our  way  to  the  earth 
again.  And  oh  how  happy  we  might  have  been  In 
our  cottage !” 

“Dear  heart,  we  will  yet  be  happy  there,"  an- 
swered Matthew.  “Look ! In  this  direction  the 
sunshine  penetrates  the  dismal  mist;  by  its  aid  I 
can  direct  our  course  to  the  passage  of  the  Notch. 


118  HAWTHORNE 

Let  us  go  back,  love,  and  dream  no  more  of  the 
Great  Carbuncle.” 

“The  sun  cannot  be  yonder,”  said  Hannah,  with 
despondence.  “By  this  time  it  must  be  noon ; if 
there  could  ever  be  any  sunshine  here,  it  would 
come  from  above  our  heads.” 

“But  look !”  repeated  Matthew,  in  a somewhat 
altered  tone.  “It  is  brightening  every  moment.  If 
not  sunshine,  what  can  it  be?” 

Nor  could  fche  young  bride  any  longer  deny  that 
a radiance  was  breaking  through  the  mist  and  chang- 
ing its  dim  hue  to  a dusky  red,  which  continually 
grew  more  vivid,  as  if  brilliant  particles  were  inter- 
fused with  the  gloom.  Now,  also,  the  cloud  began 
to  roll  away  from  the  mountain,  while,  as  it  heavily 
withdrew,  one  object  after  another  started  out  of  its 
impenetrable  obscurity  into  sight  with  precisely  the 
effect  of  a new  creation  before  the  indistinctness  of 
the  old  chaos  had  been  completely  swallowed  up. 
As  the  process  went  on  they  saw  the  gleaming  of 
water  close  at  their  feet,  and  found  themselves  on 
the  very  border  of  a mountain-lake,  deep,  bright, 
clear  and  calmly  beautiful,  spreading  from  brim  to 
brim  of  a basin  that  had  been  scooped  out  of  the 
solid  rock.  A ray  of  glory  flashed  across  its  sur- 
face. The  pilgrims  looked  whence  it  should  pro- 
ceed, but  closed  their  eyes,  with  a thrill  of  awful 
admiration,  to  exclude  the  fervid  splendor  that 
glowed  from  the  brow  of  a cliff  impending  over  the 
enchanted  lake. 

For  the  simple  pair  had  reached  that  lake  of  mys- 
tery and  found  the  long-sought  shrine  of  the  Great 


THE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE 


119 


Carbuncle.  They  threw  their  arms  around  each 
other  and  trembled  at  their  own  success,  for  as  the 
legends  of  this  wondrous  gem  rushed  thick  upon 
their  memory  they  felt  themselves  marked  out  by 
fate,  and  the  consciousness  was  fearful.  Often  from 
childhood  upward  they  had  seen  it  shining  like  a 
distant  star,  and  now  that  star  was  throwing  its 
intensest  lustre  on  their  hearts.  They  seemed 
changed  to  one  another’s  eyes  in  the  red  brilliancy 
that  flamed  upon  their  cheeks,  while  it  lent  the  same 
fire  to  the  lake,  the  rocks  and  sky,  and  to  the  mists 
which  had  rolled  back  before  its  power.  But  with 
their  next  glance  they  beheld  an  object  that  drew 
their  attention  even  from  the  mighty  stone.  At  the 
base  of  the  cliff,  directly  beneath  the  Great  Car- 
buncle, appeared  the  figure  of  a man  with  his  arms 
extended  in  the  act  of  climbing  and  his  face  turned 
upward  as  if  to  drink  the  full  gush  of  splendor.  But 
he  stirred  not,  no  more  than  if  changed  to  marble. 

“It  is  the  Seeker,”  whispered  Hannah,  convul- 
sively grasping  her  husband’s  arm.  “Matthew,  he  is 
dead.” 

“The  joy  of  success  has  killed  him,”  replied 
Matthew,  trembling  violently.  “Or  perhaps  the  very 
light  of  the  Great  Carbuncle  was  death.” 

“ The  Great  Carbuncle’ !”  cried  a peevish  voice 
behind  them.  “The  great  humbug!  If  you  have 
found  it,  prithee  point  it  out  to  me.” 

They  turned  their  heads,  and  there  was  the  cynic 
with  his  prodigious  spectacles  set  carefully  on  his 
nose,  staring  now  at  the  lake,  now  at  the  rocks, 
now  at  the  distant  masses  of  vapor,  now  right  at 


120 


HAWTHORN  k 


the  Great  Carbuncle  itself,  yet  seemingly  as  uncon- 
scious of  its  light  as  if  all  the  scattered  clouds  were 
condensed  about  his  person.  Though  its  radiance 
actually  threw  the  shadow  of  the  unbeliever  at  his 
own  feet  as  he  turned  his  back  upon  the  glorious 
jewel,  he  would  not  be  convinced  that  there  was 
the  least  glimmer  there. 

“ Where  is  your  great  humbug  ?”  he  repeated.  “I 
challenge  you  to  make  me  see  it.” 

'There!”  said  Matthew,  incensed  at  such  perverse 
blindness,  and  turning  the  cynic  round  toward  the 
illuminated  cliff.  “Take  off  those  abominable  spec- 
tacles, and  you  cannot  help  seeing  it.” 

Now,  these  colored  spectacles  probably  darkened 
the  cynic’s  sight  in  at  least  as  great  a degree  as  the 
smoked  glasses  through  which  people  gaze  at  an 
eclipse.  With  resolute  bravado,  however,  he  snatched 
them  from  his  nose  and  fixed  a bold  stare  full  upon 
the  ruddy  blaze  of  the  Great  Carbuncle.  But  scarce- 
ly had  he  encountered  it  when,  with  a deep,  shud- 
dering groan,  he  dropped  his  head  and  pressed  both 
hands  across  his  miserable  eyes.  Thenceforth  there 
was  in  very  truth  no  light  of  the  Great  Carbuncle, 
nor  any  other  light  on  earth,  nor  light  of  heaven 
itself,  for  the  poor  cynic.  So  long  accustomed  to 
view  all  objects  through  a medium  that  deprived 
them  of  every  glimpse  of  brightness,  a single  flash 
of  so  glorious  a phenomenon,  striking  upon  his 
naked  vision,  had  blinded  him  for  ever. 

“Matthew,”  said  Hannah,  clinging  to  him,  “let  us 
go  hence.” 

Matthew  saw  that  she  was  faint,  and,  kneeling 


THE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE  121 

down,  supported  her  in  his  arms  while  he  threw 
some  of  the  thrillingly-cold  water  of  the  enchanted 
lake  upon  her  face  and  bosom.  It  revived  her,  but 
could  not  renovate  her  courage. 

“Yes,  dearest/'  cried  Matthew,  pressing  her  trem- 
ulous form  to  his  breast;  “we  will  go  hence  and 
return  to  our  humble  cottage.  The  blessed  sunshine 
and  the  quiet  moonlight  shall  come  through  our 
window.  We  will  kindle  the  cheerful  glow  of  our 
hearth  at  eventide  and  be  happy  in  its  light.  But 
'ever  again  will  we  desire  more  light  than  all  the 
/orld  may  share  with  us." 

“No,"  said  his  bride,  “for  how  could  we  live  by 
day  or  sleep  by  night  in  this  awful  blaze  of  the 
Great  Carbuncle?" 

Out  of  the  hollow  of  their  hands  they  drank  each 
a draught  from  the  lake,  which  presented  them  its 
waters  uncontaminated  by  an  earthly  lip.  Then, 
lending  their  guidance  to  the  blinded  cynic,  who 
uttered  not  a word,  and  even  stifled  his  groans  in 
his  own  most  wretched  heart,  they  began  to  descend 
the  mountain.  Yet  as  they  left  the  shore,  till  then 
untrodden,  of  the  spirit’s  lake,  they  threw  a farewell 
glance  toward  the  cliff  and  beheld  the  vapors  gath- 
ering in  dense  volumes,  through  which  the  gem 
burned  duskily. 

As  touching  the  other  pilgrims  of  the  Great 
Carbuncle,  the  legend  goes  on  to  tell  that  the  wor- 
shipful Master  Ichabod  Pigsnort  soon  gave  up  the 
quest  as  a desperate  speculation,  and  wisely  re- 
solved to  betake  himself  again  to  his  warehouse, 
near  the  town-dock,  in  Boston.  But  as  he  passed 


122 


HAWTHORNE 


through  the  Notch  of  the  mountains  a war-party 
of  Indians  captured  our  unlucky  merchant  and  car- 
ried him  to  Montreal,  there  holding  him  in  bondage 
till  by  the  payment  of  a heavy  ransom  he  had  woe- 
fully subtracted  from  his  hoard  of  pine-tree  shil- 
lings. By  his  long  absence,  moreover,  his  affairs 
had  become  so  disordered  that  for  the  rest  of  his 
life,  instead  of  wallowing  in  silver,  he  had  seldom 
a sixpence- worth  of  copper.  Doctor  Cacaphodel,  the 
alchemist,  returned  to  his  laboratory  with  a pro- 
digious fragment  of  granite,  which  he  ground  to 
powder,  dissolved  in  acids,  melted  in  the  crucible 
and  burnt  with  the  blowpipe,  and  published  the  result 
of  his  experiments  in  one  of  the  heaviest  folios  of 
the  day.  And  for  all  these  purposes  the  gem  itself 
could  not  have  answered  better  than  the  granite. 
The  poet,  by  a somewhat  similar  mistake,  made  prize 
of  a great  piece  of  ice  which  he  found  in  a sunless 
chasm  of  the  mountains,  and  swore  that  it  corre- 
sponded in  all  points  with  his  idea  of  the  Great 
Carbuncle.  The  critics  say  that,  if  his  poetry  lacked 
the  splendor  of  the  gem,  it  retained  all  the  coldness 
of  the  ice.  Lord  De  Vere  went  back  to  his  ancestral 
hall,  where  he  contented  himself  with  a wax-lighted 
chandelier,  and  filled  in  due  course  of  time  another 
coffin  in  the  ancestral  vault.  As  the  funeral  torches 
gleamed  within  that  dark  receptacle,  there  was  no 
need  of  the  Great  Carbuncle  to  show  the  vanity  of 
earthly  pomp. 

The  cynic,  having  cast  aside  his  spectacles,  wan- 
dered about  the  world  a miserable  object,  and  was 
punished  with  an  agonizing  desire  of  light  for  the 


THE  GREAT  CARBUNCLE 


123 


wilful  blindness  of  his  former  life.  The  whole  night 
long  he  would  lift  his  splendor-blasted  orbs  to  the 
moon  and  stars;  he  turned  his  face  eastward  at 
sunrise  as  duly  as  a Persian  idolator;  he  made  a 
pilgrimage  to  Rome  to  witness  the  magnificent  il- 
lumination of  Saint  Peter’s  church,  and  finally  per- 
ished in  the  Great  Fire  of  London,  into  the  midst  of 
which  he  had  thrust  himself  with  the  desperate  idea 
of  catching  one  feeble  ray  from  the  blaze  that  was 
kindling  earth  and  heaven. 

Matthew  and  his  bride  spent  many  peaceful  years 
and  were  fond  of  telling  the  legend  of  the  Great 
Carbuncle.  The  tale,  however,  toward  the  close  of 
their  lengthened  lives,  did  not  meet  with  the  full 
credence  that  had  been  accorded  to  it  by  those  who 
remembered  the  ancient  lustre  of  the  gem.  For  it 
is  affirmed  that  from  the  hour  when  two  mortals 
had  shown  themselves  so  simply  wise  as  to  reject 
a jewel  which  would  have  dimmed  all  earthly  things 
its  splendor  waned.  When  our  pilgrims  reached  the 
cliff,  they  found  only  an  .opaque  stone  with  particles 
of  mica  glittering  on  its  surface.  There  is  also  a 
tradition  that  as  the  youthful  pair  departed  the 
gem  was  loosened  from  the  forehead  of  the  cliff  and 
fell  into  the  enchanted  lake,  and  that  at  noontide 
the  Seeker’s  form  may  still  be  seen  to  bend  over  its 
quenchless  gleam. 

Some  few  believe  that  this  inestimable  stone  is 
blazing  as  of  old,  and  say  that  they  have  caught  its 
radiance,  like  a flash  of  summer  lightning,  far  down 
the  valley  of  the  Saco.  And  be  it  owned  that  many 
a mile  from  the  Crystal  Hills  I saw  a wondrous 


HAWTHORMli 


m 

light  around  their  summits,  and  was  lured  by  the 
faith  of  poesy  to  be  the  latest  pilgrim  of  the  Great 
Carbuncle. 


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grave’s  Golden  Treasury,  besides  such  complete 
longer  works  as  Fitzgerald’s  Omar  Khayyam.  The 
volumes  together  make  a magnificent  library  at  small 
cost.  Mr.  Cody  has  a national  reputation  as  a wise 
chooser  of  the  best  that  is  also  interesting  to  the 
average  reader. 


u Of  I Library  Champalgn-Urbana 


Manufactured  by 

LITTLE  LEATHER  LIBRARY  CORPORATION 
New  York 


